


Another Side

by Beans (provetheworst)



Category: Universal Century Gundam
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Newtypes (Gundam), No One Year War, Space Politics, former coffee shop au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/pseuds/Beans
Summary: Amuro's least favorite customer turns up at the coffee shop again.(or: an AU where Zeon zum Deikun survives the attempt on his life and the One Year War never happens. Char finds a new weapon, Amuro quits his job, and the political situation between Earth and the colonies rapidly unravels regardless of whether anyone wants it to or not.)
Relationships: Char Aznable/Amuro Ray
Comments: 49
Kudos: 81
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phraseme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phraseme/gifts).



It’s another sleepy afternoon on Side 7, the streets slightly slick from scheduled rainfall. Amuro leans on the counter, staring out the window. Business has been blessedly slow the past ten minutes or so, another rush over. He could use the time to clean, but he’s _tired_. The past week has been rough, and not for any particular reason. Bad dreams. Frau Bow away on vacation, visiting another banchi. His father is as absent as ever, and even when Tem is home he holes himself up in his office, working ceaselessly. Amuro wishes he had a better reason to feel so despondent, but he doesn’t, not really. Knowing that it’s irrational doesn’t help.

“Amuro!” His manager, Bright, jars him out of his aimless reverie, and he jerks upright, turning to face him. Bright has been losing patience with him the past few weeks, not that Amuro can blame him. He’s good at making coffee, but not the best with customers. 

He hears the door jingle, but ignores it in favor of appeasing his manager. “Yes, sir?”

“Are you here to work, or daydream?”

“My money’s on daydreaming.” And here is Amuro’s least favorite customer, sunglasses guy. Amuro doesn’t know for sure what his name is; he gives a different one every time he comes in. “Can I get the usual?”

“I don’t know, what’s your name today?” Amuro asks sullenly. He’s nineteen years old and has been dealing with this guy for three years now and still hasn’t gotten a straight answer as to who this man is or what he does or _anything_. His other regulars, he has at least an idea what their names and jobs are. Where they live. Things they like besides coffee. Sunglasses guy is a mystery. One Amuro wants to either punch or make out with, or maybe both, in no particular order.

“Amuro,” Bright says, warningly.

Sunglasses guy tilts his head back, obnoxiously thoughtful. “Let’s go with Char.”

“So a medium half-caff caramel latte. Sure.” Amuro gets to work making it, waving Bright toward the register. Bright can deal with ringing a customer up for once in his life, instead of just hassling Amuro.

The trouble with sunglasses guy - besides the fact that he wears sunglasses when he’s inside - is that he has a different regular order for each of his stupid aliases, and also, he’s annoyingly hot.

Sometimes Amuro daydreams about piloting one of the mobile suits his dad has been working on and kicking sunglasses guy’s ass. It’s not a very noble or dignified fantasy, and he would never actually do such a thing even if he had the chance - but it’s fun to imagine it, sometimes.

His orders aren’t the worst. He always tips well. Sometimes he hangs around for hours in the corner, writing something in a notebook, and others he leaves as soon as he gets his drink. Amuro knows a lot about all of his customers, and mostly doesn’t care one way or another about them as long as they don’t start shit. Why he’s got it out for sunglasses guy - Char, for the moment - he couldn’t really say. Maybe it’s the attitude, or, again, the sunglasses. He just seems familiar in a way Amuro can’t place, and overconfident in an undefinable way about nothing Amuro can pinpoint. But Amuro _also_ thinks that confidence is at least a little bit of an act, and -

“Your speed’s slipping,” Bright says. He is the worst. Of all the shift managers - well, honestly, he’s probably the most patient with Amuro, is the thing, but also he’s the worst. Amuro respects him.

“No, no, just wait,” Amuro says, because the thing is, Char has exacting temperature requirements - not that he’s ever said so, but Amuro has made an art of figuring out exactly how how to heat the milk and when to add the espresso and _so_ many other stupid little details to get his drinks right. (It’s a whole other story for Quattro and Casval, a whole other round of totally different little details. Stupid. Amuro rises to the challenge every time, and it’s not like Char’s ever even _issued_ a challenge, just - whether he smiles or not over his drink, whether he says it’s good that day or not, things like that have motivated Amuro to become the best barista he can be.)

Bright’s staring at him.

Char says, “He knows my order, it’s fine.”

“If you say so.” Bright rolls his eyes. “I’m going to be in the office if you need me for anything.”

“I’ve got it,” Amuro says, waving him away. He starts his pour, at long last. He left just enough room for just the right amount of foam, and also - he’s going to make today’s drink take even longer.

The other day, he happened to see a new sticker on the front of Char’s notebook. And Amuro has gone from being utterly inept to an at least passable barista, partly because of the challenge of getting his stupid orders right, and he is _going_ to do some latte art today.

Char leans his hip against the counter. “What are you up to?”

“Shh. Don’t look,” Amuro says, not looking up until he’s done. He’s been practicing this one in his downtime.

Char has, against all odds, respectfully turned his head to look out the same window Amuro was looking out of earlier.

“Okay.” Amuro pushes the cup across the counter very, very carefully, so as not to disrupt the art he did in the foam.

Char looks at it. Then he laughs.

Amuro scowls. “What?”

His expression’s hard to read, sometimes, with the sunglasses; right now, he’s inscrutable. “That’s not a mobile worker.”

“No.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s classified military intelligence, in fact,” Char says, putting his hands on the counter. He smirks, and Amuro can’t help but imagine that the expression reaches his eyes. Amuro still doesn’t know what color his eyes are. Not that it matters. Amuro considers punching him. “How does a coffee shop worker know about that? Who are you working for?”

“Nobody! It’s just my - I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Not suspicious at all,” Char says. “Well, it’s a very nice latte art mobile suit, so thank you.” He finally, after that agonizing conversation, picks up his drink. “Maybe I shouldn’t come back, though, if you’ve gathered so much intelligence on me.”

“That’s not -“

“I should probably leave Side 7, honestly,” Char says, still leaning on the counter. He sips at his latte, looking smugger than he ever has. “How’d you find me out, anyway? So I know better next time.”

“The insignia on your notebook.” Amuro scowls. “Everyone says the project’s top secret, but half the colony knows by now, honestly.”

“I think you overestimate what your fellow colonists know.” Char stands up straight, finally, running a hand through his infuriatingly shaggy blond hair. Amuro wants to touch it so badly, maybe to mess it up, maybe to - well. Whatever. 

“Anyway, I’m not a spy or anything,” Amuro tells him, feeling like this is very important information for Char to have. “So you don’t have to go anywhere.”

“You know, I actually want to believe you.”

-

Char doesn’t show up for another three weeks, and Amuro has started spinning all kinds of wild conspiracy theories in his head as to why, and then, in the middle of a rush, there he is, in line right behind Lalah. Actually talking to her, like they’re old friends or something.

Amruo feels like he’s losing his mind. He hasn’t seen Lalah in weeks, either.

Mirai’s on register, so Amuro doesn’t have to actually talk to him if he doesn’t want to. Mirai calls out an order for Quattro, and Amuro doesn’t even have to listen to more than a name to get started on the drink. (Technically, he has to finish the two drinks before it first, but he completely zones out through the entirety of the smoothie and the mocha latte he makes.)

Quattro’s order is easy, compared to when he orders as Char: an almond milk flat white. No weird syrups or special requests, but Amuro’s dedicated himself to perfecting this drink, too; no one else really orders the flat white with almond milk, but he’s nailed the creation of the drink solely for Char. Quattro. Whoever the hell he is.

Amuro is _pretty_ sure that sunglasses guy is a spy. For who or what or why, he couldn’t say. But it’s what he’s decided. Bright has looked about ready to kill him a half dozen times when he’s spent too long going on about his theory, and Sayla’s tired of hearing about it, too. She’s somehow never once encountered sunglasses guy, who has a miraculous habit of only ever appearing when she isn’t there. All his other coworkers have encountered the guy at least once. The only person in his life who hasn’t been driven to frustration by Amuro’s ranting is his father, who mostly has just ignored him in favor of working on more and more diagrams for the new mobile suit he’s building. 

The mobile suit that Char also knows about and recognizes and thinks Amuro’s weird for knowing about. He’d figured Char just worked on the same project as his dad, but now the spy thing has jumped up the list of theories.

(The number of times Amuro’s daydreamed about kicking Char’s ass with a mobile suit has jumped, too, but now he also sometimes dreams about the two of them facing off as pilots, which is entertaining to think about if utterly absurd. Things are peaceful, and even if they weren’t, Side 7’s on the other side of the Earth from the other La Grange points and their respective colonies. No one’s going to bother with them. Still: he imagines himself in the experimental mobile suit his dad’s working on, and Char in something lame like a Zaku or a GM, and still, even in his daydreams, he only wins about half the time. Daydream Char is a really good pilot. Maybe an _actual_ pilot, now that Amuro thinks about it.)

“Quattro,” Amuro calls, when he’s finally done with the drink and the ones before it.

“Amuro.” Quattro lifts his drink, tilting the cup a little in something like a salute. Amuro winces, but somehow the drink doesn’t spill, and he lets out a sigh of relief that makes Quattro grin.

“I thought you were gone,” Amuro blurts out, even though he’d fully meant to ignore Quattro.

Quattro takes a sip of his drink. “Huh. Perfect. You mastered this one while I was away.”

“I guess.” Amuro stares at him. He should be making other drinks. There’s a line. He starts on one, without turning away, craning his neck when he has to. “Seriously, you’re still here. I thought you’d left the colony.”

“What made you think that?”

Amuro pauses. “Because I didn’t see you around. Wait, _did_ you leave?”

Quattro laughs, seeming delighted by the question. “Who knows! Maybe.”

“God, I hate you,” Amuro breathes, impressed by his own vehemency. “My shift’s over at three.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll see you or I won’t,” Amuro says. “I’ll be out of here by five after.”

“And why should I stick around for that?”

“You can leave and come back. No one said you have to stay.”

“Why would I come back?”

Amuro shrugs. He finished up another drink, calls out the associated name. Passes it off. Looks back up at Quattro. “It just seems like you always do anyway, whether I ask you to or not.”

“Is that so.”

“Besides, you know what I do for a living.” He gestures broadly toward the rest of the shop. Gets to work on getting a drip coffee ready for another customer, maybe the easiest thing in the world. He’s way too distracted, talking to Quattro, but it’s fine. He’s getting his job done even so, moving on autopilot through the motions. “Maybe I want to know more about you. _Anything_ about you, besides your shitty taste in eyewear.”

“I would have thought you knew plenty, after that stunt last time.”

Amuro pulls a face. “Lucky guess.”

“Hm.” Quattro tilts his head to the side for a moment, then, with a jaunty little half-salute, turns and leaves.

Amuro’s off his game for the rest of his shift.

-

At four minutes past three, Amuro pulls the collar up on his jacket. Shoulders up, head down, he heads out of the shop. He doesn’t see sunglasses guy anywhere, which is fine. It’s not like he expected to. Asking him to stop by again was stupid. Expecting him to want to converse with Amuro outside of the strict, bizarre confines of their barista/customer relationship was stupid.

He’s going to go home and work on upgrading Haro and maybe see if he can’t crack more of the files his dad’s working on to learn more about the new mobile suit. (Char was right, it turns out; he’s tried dropping subtle hints to random people, as roundabout as possible, and none of them have any idea about the suits being built under their noses. Everyone he’s talked to is just proud of how much industry is booming with the production of mobile workers for construction of more colonies. One of his old classmates even corrected him, when he said mobile suit, made fun of him for getting the name wrong.)

Amuro’s sulking his way home and has gotten maybe a half block from the coffee shop when he feels a sudden weight on his shoulder. He jumps, spins around, and punches someone in the face.

Sunglasses guy, with a hand to his cheek, stares back at him, incredulous.

Amuro looks down at his fist, then at the man he just hit again. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I didn’t even get to say hello and you’re attacking me.”

“Sorry. You startled me.”

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling; through the central haze, the other side of the colony is just visible, with its own trees and streets and houses. Amuro looks up, too. There’s a rival coffee shop up there. Amuro wonders if sunglasses guy ever goes there, or if he exists purely to spite Amuro and his coworkers. (There are more coffee shops on Side 7, of course, but Amuro can’t help but think sunglasses guy either goes to his exclusively, or to the rival shop. The idea of him going anywhere else is - there’s no drama to it, no human interest.)

Finally, he grins.”So, Amuro. Amuro Ray. Spacenoid barista.”

“You don’t really have to specify that I’m a spacenoid if we’re, you know.” Amuro looks up again, then shrugs. “Unless you’re an earthnoid or something.”

“No. Born and raised among the stars, free from Earth’s gravity. I’ve never been. Have you?”

Amuro looks down at his feet. “I was born there, actually.”

“But you escaped! Good for you.”

“My father moved up here when I was young. I don’t know if I’d call that an escape, so much as … just something that happened.” Amuro shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. Who are you, and what do you know about mobile suits?”

“What does a barista know about them?”

“No way. You can’t just turn that around on me. I’ll punch you again. On purpose this time.”

“You will _not_.” Char smirks at him again. He starts walking, and Amuro has to hurry to follow. Char rests his arm on Amuro’s shoulder again, like that’s a perfectly normal thing to do to someone you’ve spent three years talking about nothing but coffee drinks with. (Well - technically, some of that time’s been spent talking about hot chocolate, because that’s what he always orders as Édouard, the most obnoxiously-spelled of all his names. He insists on the diacritical mark over the E on his cup or else he’ll turn the order down until someone gets a sharpie and fixes it. It’s always Amuro who has to do this for Édouard.) “So, are you wearing a wire, or what?”

“Why are you so convinced I’m a spy?”

Char raises his eyebrows. “You’re grilling me about top secret military intelligence, that’s why. And assuming I know anything about it.”

“You recognized the mobile suit I drew!”

“Shh,” Char tells him.

“You’re the absolute worst.” Amuro sighs heavily, looking skyward once more. “Maybe I didn’t want to to talk about mobile suits at all.”

“You _just_ asked me what I know about them.”

“Ah.”

“There’s no way the Federation would hire anyone so incompetent as a spy,” Char says. “So what do _you_ know?”

“Oh, you’re a spy.”

“Oh my god.”

“It all makes sense,” Amuro decides, nodding to himself. “I get it now.”

“Amuro.”

“Char, or whatever your name is. You’re a spy.”

Char stops, and turns, and puts both his hands on Amuro’s shoulders. Amuro can just see his eyes through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He’s staring at Amuro very intently. “Amuro, you’re going to get yourself in trouble some day, speaking so cavalierly.”

“And you’re going to get yourself in trouble for being a spy.” Amuro pauses for a moment, then - “Are you a pilot? Of one of those suits.”

Char presses a finger to his lips, grinning.

Amuro considers slapping him. He does not. 

Char leans in very close, his lips almost touching Amuro’s ear. He can feel the damp heat of his breath against his skin. Amuro feels his face grow flush. Char whispers, “What do you know about the Gundam?”

“Nothing. The what?”

“You’re a terrible liar. I can see right through you.”

“Whatever.” Amuro stays as still as he can. They’re so, so close. The hands on his shoulders, Char’s face close to his own. His most obnoxious customer, the one with too many names, is absolutely a spy. For someone, for something. The trouble is - for all that Amuro’s smart, and he knows he is, he doesn’t pay a lot of attention to politics or current events. He has no idea who Char could be working for or why. The Federation. That weird group from Sides 3 and 5 - Zeon, Zabi, whatever they’re called. Anaheim, or some other engineering company. It could be anything from minor corporate espionage to a legitimate threat on the safety of the colonies.

Amuro’s made coffee for this guy for three years. Amuro’s thought about kissing him. (Amuro is _currently_ thinking about kissing him, and maybe also about them killing each other in a dramatic showdown.)

“Listen, Amuro. Do you want to pilot a mobile suit?”

“What?”

“You do, don’t you. I can tell.”

“Is that … are you offering? Why are you asking this?”

“Because I want to see what you’re capable of.”

Amuro closes his eyes, whispering a wordless prayer to the stars, so close outside the metal shell of the colony. “What would you want in return?”

“Nothing. I just want to see what you can do.”

“I see,” Amuro says. He does not see at all, in fact.

“What about you? What would you want in return?”

Amuro screws his eyes even tighter shut for a moment, then steels himself and meets Char’s eyes - or the reflection of his own eyes in his sunglasses, anyway. “If you’re going to leave, take me with you.”

Char seems almost impressed. “You really would be a terrible spy. I made a mistake when I came up with that theory.”

“Wow, admitting you’re not perfect. Very big of you, Char.”

“Why do you think I’m leaving, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I just - have a feeling.” Amuro gets feelings like that, sometimes, about things that might happen. Weird moments of intuition. An uncanny sense of what might happen, if he doesn’t act. This is one of those times, where a feeling - that Char’s going to leave and get himself killed - rattles around in his head until he _has_ to do something about it, and he thinks, if he’s there. If he’s there, Char’s not going to die, maybe. “I just do.”

Char looks like he’s going to say something obnoxious, as ever, and Amuro decides he’s had enough. Amuro doesn’t even have to lean up to do what he’s about to do, because Char’s been leaning down to get in his space for this entire absurd conversation. He just has to turn his head, angle his head up a little, and then he’s doing one of the things he’s daydreamed about for years: he’s kissing Char.

It takes Char a moment to respond, but he _does_ , and not by pushing Amuro away or laughing at him. He does seem sort of amused, but he doesn’t laugh in Amuro’s face, just sort of grins into the kiss as their mouths meet and Amuro gets annoyed enough to nip at his lower lip. 

It is, somehow, almost exactly what he imagined - a little mean, not-quite-desperate. Char lets him bite but doesn’t return the favor, which almost pisses Amuro off more. He eventually gives up on Char’s mouth, choosing to bite at the thin skin of his neck, instead. Char tilts his head, giving him better access. “Really, Amuro? In the middle of the street?”

“I hate you,” Amuro decides, then and there. He stumbles backwards a few steps, pushing Char off of him, but staring at him intently. “Take me with you. Wherever you’re going.”

Char’s mouth is curved down in a frown. His lips are reddened from kissing. He looks - Amuro can’t tell, really, not with those glasses blocking half his face. (He thinks, maybe, Char might have a sense of what’s to come too. Maybe. Maybe he’s projecting.) “Well, since you asked so nicely. Won’t your manager be upset when you quit?”

“Bright’s wanted to fire me for months,” Amuro says. “It’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

"I say so," Amuro says. He's been so bored lately. Maybe, if he does this, he'll at least find out what Char's actual name is, or, barring that, what color his eyes are. Maybe he'll learn something important. Maybe he'll _be_ important, if he's not stuck wasting his days making coffee for an endless array of the same people over and over again. He thinks about the stars, and the sheer scale of the mobile suits he's heard about by digging through his father's files and the few images he's gotten his hands on.

"All right, then." Char holds his hand out. Somehow, clasping his hand feels even more momentous than kissing him did, just a moment ago. "Welcome aboard, Amuro."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a coffee shop au

They sit in a park, the air still, and Char asks, finally, because he put this together a while ago and already confirmed it but still needs to know what Amuro will say: "Are you Tem Ray's son?"

Amuro looks away, shrugs. A little bird is singing somewhere nearby. ”Yes."

"Ah. He never mentioned you." It makes sense, of course, that the two would be related. He can only barely see the resemblance physically but the aloofness, the talent for engineering - those traits aren't guarantees of anything but they fit nonetheless. He has to know how Amuro will react to this news, too. Not for any good reason. He just likes that Amuro resents him. It's what he deserves. 

Amuro shrugs again, brows furrowing for a moment before evening out. He seems unsurprised. "Oh."

“Oh?" A light breeze ruffles Amuro’s hair for a moment, and Char looks up at the clouds hazing the middle of the colony.

"What do you want me to say to that?"

“Nothing. I don’t really care about your family either way,” Char tells him with an easy grin. Good enough. He can work with this. As long as that antagonism is there, as long as Amuro wants to impress him out of spite. He can't push too far, but. This works. This will work. “Well, except your father's job. Tell me everything you know about the Gundam."

"What could I even tell you? You're the one who's been working on it."

"Tem isn't the most forthcoming boss, especially not to a lowly technician," Char says. (The truth: he's only recently been assigned to the project, after a few years earning trust working his way up in Anaheim. But he's growing impatient, and Tem Ray's son, who he's unknowingly been annoying for years, has ambitions and some sort of misplaced interest in him, and Char is not one to throw away a chance when it punches him in the face. They haven’t let him test the Gundam yet, not even with his level of security clearance, nor look at the plans outside of schematics for specific parts he’s had to help repair - the shield, some of the weapons. Nothing interesting or useful enough to send home yet.)

Amuro pulls up a fistful of grass and starts picking at the blades, tossing them aside one by one. "This is probably treason, isn't it? If I tell you anything. I’ve already broken the law just by finding out as much as I have, and this is worse.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

"At least you're not lying to me," Amuro says, seemingly to himself. "Fine, I'll tell you everything I know."

Amuro knows quite a lot, it turns out. Char is aware of some of it but a lot of information - about the potential speed, about the inner workings and not just the armaments - is new. No one on the team has even breathed a word about the on board computers to the lowly tech Char yet, though he knew there had to be something more going on than fancy armor plating.

Zeon are developing their own suits, of course, but a weapon like this, with the right pilot - it won't decide a war, but it could certainly decide individual battles.

Char leans back on his hands, looking up through the trees. Side 7 is a little more humid than Texas Colony, the landscape more built up; the forests here are totally different. The humans who have been pushed out here, thrown from Earth's cradle and made to survive on their own, have done well for themselves, with the environments they've created. Every colony he’s visited, even though they all look the same from the outside, has something about it that makes it stand apart from the others.

“You really are Tem Ray’s son,” he says, when he’s done grilling Amuro on the Gundam’s characteristics. “You have a good head for these things. What would you do if I told you we were going to steal the Gundam?”

Amuro stares at him. “Steal it? For what? I thought you were going to try and - I don’t know, sell the plans to the highest bidder. Make your own.”

Char grins at him, charmed by how forthright Amuro’s being. “That too, but it’s easier to replicate something you have in front of you. What if your father’s made undocumented changes to the designs? What if he’s been throwing in noise to confuse us?”

Amuro shakes his head. “He wouldn’t ruin the sanctity of his designs that way. But he might leave something out, you’re right. For his pride.”

“Hm.” Char eyes Amuro carefully, then nods. “So, are you still on board?”

“What happens if I say no?”

Char doesn’t answer that. Nothing he could say would be more intimidating than silence, letting Amuro fill in the blanks with whatever he can imagine. He doesn’t actually want to intimidate Amuro, either. There needs to be a certain level of antagonism between them, but fear doesn’t serve either of them here. So: no threats, but no reassurances, either.

Maybe this is another test, in its own way. See if Amuro can see his true intentions through all the layers of deflection and obfuscation. If Amuro can manage to understand him, despite the barriers. (A foolish, selfish test that does nothing to help his family or the cause, unless he justifies it to himself as testing Amuro’s capabilities as a Newtype. He thinks Amuro must be one, like Lalah. Nothing Amuro’s done has been a real confirmation, but - he has a feeling. His instincts have been good on this issue so far, so he’ll follow the thread and see where it leads. Even if testing has proven inconclusive over whether or not Char is a Newtype himself, he’s confident he can find them when he needs to.)

Amuro chews at his lower lip, frowning down at the dirt, then meets Char’s gaze. “Just tell me when, and I’ll visit my father at work. I think I can get him to show off. I’ve read the manual; I can get it out of the hangar, I think.”

At that, Char has no choice but to laugh. “Oh! You want to pilot it?”

“You _asked_ if I wanted to pilot a mobile suit! Earlier!”

“So you thought -“ Char has to stop, laughing again. “Amuro. So childish. I didn’t mean as some part of daring escape. I meant once we’re off the colony.”

“I really, really hate you,” Amuro announces, vehement. “If I don’t get to pilot it, then what do you need me for?”

“No, no,” Char says, shaking his head as he rolls the idea over in his mind, prodding at the angles. “I like your plan, actually. They won’t dare destroy the Gundam if you’re inside it. If they think it’s just Tem’s son acting out and taking the fancy mobile suit for a joy ride …”

“That’s more like something my old neighbor Kai would do,” Amuro says, running a hand through his hair. “But I think it works.”

“I think I can get you a few hours in a simulator before we commence operations.” Char gives Amuro a mocking little salute. “And then you can make a name for yourself as a pilot.”

“It’s not like I’ll be flying it into combat.” Amuro pauses. “There’s not - the Federation and Zeon are at peace. You’re not with Zeon, I don’t think. I won’t be fighting anyone. Right?”

Char spreads his arms in a broad shrug. There’s nothing he can say to any of that, really. “We’ll get going a week from today. I won’t see you much until then. Keep going to work. Act normal. And next Friday, follow the plan.”

“Once I’m in the suit -“

“You’ll know what to do,” Char says. He still has to formulate the rest of this plan on his side; needs to contact people. It’s not quite what he initially intended, but it should work just as well. Even if he _did_ have the details hammered out already - and he’s getting very close, admittedly - he wouldn’t tell Amuro, just in case. There are so many moments between now and next week where Amuro could change his mind.

The perfectly normal technician Quattro Bajeena will keep showing up to work at Anaheim, alongside the Federation officers and Anaheim’s own engineers. Quattro will keep his head down, working on maintenance and repair work. He’ll get one last paycheck and then he’ll call in sick on the day of the operation and never be seen at the secret facility ever again. (If he can manage it, maybe Quattro will even die in action. There’s sure to be _some_ sort of pursuit, and Char has experience with faking deaths. He’ll call in a favor from a Zeon loyalist; there are a few on this colony that he’s left untapped, not wanting to risk blowing their covers. He’s _usually_ cautious, when his favorite coffee shop isn’t involved.)

Working together with someone, planning together - it’s strange. Char isn’t used to it, but he thinks he likes it despite himself. He wants to see what Amuro can do when he puts his mind to something more important than making lattes. The level of dedication Amuro’s put toward that task, aimed instead at piloting a mobile suit or working toward the liberation of the colonies - Char feels almost giddy at the potential.

Still: Amuro isn’t the same as Lalah. He’s using them both, of course, but. It’s different. He shouldn’t get too overeager too soon, without proof that Amuro will actually follow through. If this plan fails, he’ll need backup plans; the rest of the week is going to be dedicated to setting those up, in addition to making sure all the pieces are aligned for the theft of the Gundam.

“So, are you in?” He holds a hand out for a handshake, and Amuro looks down at it then rolls his eyes and refuses the gesture, not even lifting a finger. Char’s eyebrows raise. 

In an apparent effort to look confident or haughty, Amuro tilts his head back, baring his throat even as he glares at Char. “What do you think?”

He must think this makes him look tough. His features have sharpened a bit, since Char first yet him several years ago. At first he hadn’t even noticed Amuro, just went to the coffee shop nearest the little apartment he was living out of when the urge struck him. It was when he accidentally went under the wrong cover and Amuro actually noticed that he first paid him any mind. (He’d taken to making up new identities, then, just for the sake of it. To taunt Amuro, and to see if anyone else would notice. It worked, and no one really seemed to, or if they did, they didn’t care and were wholly unbothered. It’s not as if his different personae were ever especially distinct from one another.) 

Out of everyone, only Amuro ever called him on it, and Char found himself drifting into the barista’s orbit more regularly despite knowing, logically, that it was a foolish risk to take just to entertain himself. There’s something about the defiance in those blue-grey eyes, the way Amuro refuses to accept a gesture of kindness while still being willing to throw himself into a situation he doesn’t understand -

Char smiles, and the tension in Amuro’s shoulders eases, just a bit, as he nods.

-

Out of everything in his room, there are only a few things Amuro really wants to take with him when he abandons Side 7. Haro, obviously. A few tools of his own that he’s not sure will be available wherever he ends up. A favorite jacket, an extra pair of shoes. He gets these things packed that first evening and then spends a sleepless night staring at his ceiling.

He has a class the next day, and thinks about skipping, but he sees his neighbor Hayato practicing judo out his window and for some reason the fact that people he knows are going about their daily lives like nothing’s happening spurs him to do the same. Of course people are acting like nothing’s happening: nothing _is_ , for them. They have no way of knowing.

Amuro doesn’t know what he’s doing. This is a mistake.

He goes to class, half pays attention, and absolutely demolishes a quiz the teacher gives. After this semester, he was finally going to apply for that internship at Anaheim, as part of his graduation requirements from the engineering program he’s enrolled in. Not anymore.

He wonders if whatever company Char works for will give him a job.

After class, he goes to work, going through the motions.

Near the end of his shift, Sayla’s shift starts - with a half hour overlap - and she takes a few minutes before asking, “Amuro, are you alright?”

“What? Oh. I didn’t sleep well.”

That doesn’t seem to be enough to assuage her fears, as Sayla continues to watch him for the next while. His performance isn’t suffering, at least. He’s making drinks at a decent pace, not being rude to the customers, and cleaning things up after himself when he has the time.

“Listen, if you ever need to talk …” She trails off, patting him on the arm as he gets ready to leave for the day. “You know how to find me.”

“Sayla …”

“Go home and get some rest.” She’s comfortingly matter-of-fact in that proclamation. “You need it. And I mean it - if you need to talk, just let me know.”

He goes home, eats dinner at Fraw Bow’s house - she’s back from vacation, finally - and then goes home and goes to bed. He does not dream.

-

Midweek, Mirai hands him an envelope, rolling her eyes. “That friend of yours said to give this to you.”

“What friend?”

“Your so-called ‘spy’ friend.” She laughs. “He really is weird. He’s not bothering you, is he?”

“No, no,” Amuro says, shaking his head quickly, staring at the envelope - his name is printed on it in neat blue letters. “We’re bothering each other, really, don’t worry about it.”

Her eyebrows go up, at that, and there’s concern written across her face. The store is quiet, aside from the faint strains of a pop song meandering through the speakers. “Are you sure?”

Amuro nods. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I had a customer who wouldn’t leave me alone, a while ago,” she says, resting her hands on the counter as she leans back. “But I told Bright about it -“

“It’s not like that at all,” Amuro says, jerking his head up and staring at her. He hadn’t even known a customer was bothering her. Of course she’d go to Bright instead of him. “Char is fine.”

“If you’re sure.” She still looks worried. “I thought you said you hated him?”

“I don’t _hate_ him.” Amuro looks aside, thinking about Char - the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, the red bomber jacket he wears sometimes. How he still doesn’t know what color Char’s eyes are, and how Char had asked him to help. “I mean, I hate him, but not like that.”

Mirai hums worriedly, but then a group of eight people show up and they have to get to work; by the time the little rush that follows is over, Mirai appears to have forgotten the matter entirely, or just let it drop.

The envelope contains a disk wrapped in a sheet of paper that just says, ‘here you go!,’ and no further instructions. Amuro frowns at it. It bothers him the rest of his shift, burning a hole in his pocket - because he stuffs it in the back pocket of his pants rather than risk setting it down and forgetting it somewhere.

When he gets home, it turns out to be a simulator program for piloting a mobile suit, with all sorts of Anaheim Electronics logos plastered across the screen and a seemingly-infinite number of disclaimers screaming at him not to let this information be seen by other employees who lack adequate clearance, to say nothing of people who don’t work for the company. He clicks _agreed_ and _I accept_ probably a dozen times before getting to the tutorial and then the simulator proper.

He doesn’t sleep well that night, either, but at least he has a better reason for staying up late.

All told - with work and classes and Fraw Bow fretting over him - he only gets a few hours to practice, but it’s better than going in with nothing but time spent huddled over the manual. He has an idea of the control scheme and weapons and maneuvering capabilities, simulated both in colony gravity and in 0G.

Amuro feels aimless and restless but also like he’s finally, finally breaking out of the stasis his life has been in - work, class, work on projects at home, repeat. It’s been years since he last left Side 7, and he’s ready to be out among the stars again instead of this one giant tin can he calls home.

Everything and everyone he knows is here - besides his mother - and that’s been the problem all along, hasn’t it. Amuro has been _bored_ , without fully realizing it.

-

Amuro takes a deep breath, running a hand over his face before nodding once to himself and making his merry way to the front gate of the secret compound he’s technically not supposed to know about.

A guard - in _Federation_ uniform, even though this is an Anaheim facility - stops him. Obviously. Of course. He knew there were Feddies on the colony. It’s been a sore spot for ages now that there are troops on a civilian colony in peacetime. He doesn’t really care one way or another, since their presence here means his father has a job and he’s got a place to live. Then again, if it weren’t for them, he might be able to go home to Earth. Not that he actually wants to. His mother -

“You’re not authorized to be here,” the guard says, interrupting his thoughts.

Amuro blinks up at him, tightening his grip on Haro. “Bright?”

He’s not the only one who’s surprised. “Amuro?!”

“You’re a _soldier_?”

“I’m a reservist,” Bright says. Then: “Wait, you didn’t know that?”

“You’re my manager!” (Haro, helpfully, tells him, “Bright! Soldier!”)

“This is what I do on weekends.” Bright shrugs. “I would still be on Earth if it weren’t for this posting.”

“You’re from Earth?”

“Amuro -“ Bright puts a hand against his face, sighing deeply as he turns away. He takes a moment to gather himself, then says, “Just because I know you doesn’t mean you can be here. You’re still unauthorized. I’ll see you at work on Monday.”

“Right.” Amuro pauses. “No. I need to see my dad. He was supposed to be home for dinner tonight. It’s - the anniversary of my grandmother’s death. I know he always works late, but …”

“Ah, you’re Tem Ray’s son, right.” Bright nods to himself, like he’s just put this together. “Listen, there aren’t exceptions for family, either.”

Amuro nearly gives up. It would be very, very easy to back out and have everything go back to normal now, and no one but Char would ever know. He swallows, looking down at his feet. “Bright …”

Bright stares him down for a moment, then says, “If I call him and tell him why you’re here, will he know what you’re talking about?”

Amuro shrugs his shoulders noncommittally, shifting Haro to hold the little robot under one arm. “Probably not. Have you met him?”

That question makes Bright smile. “I’m not sure he ever thinks about anything other than work. We don’t talk often, but he’s very focused.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You’re right, fair enough. I’ll escort you in,” Bright decides, sounding resigned to his fate. The colony’s daylight is starting to dim into sunset colors, fading the world a golden-pink as evening draws in. Amuro half-remembers sunsets on Earth, still, from the ones he saw as a child. They were never like on the colonies. “It’s good that you’re being a loyal son. His own mother …”

“She died on Earth, so we never got to go to her funeral,” Amuro tells him, which is completely true. The anniversary of her death is in two weeks, but he’s relying on his father’s complete disregard for such things to work in his favors. He can drop the topic as soon as Bright leaves them alone, start asking about the Gundam, get his dad to show it off - Amuro’s not a good liar, but he’s worked with Bright long enough and is using enough that’s basically-true that he’s muddling through it okay, he thinks. (He’s had practice lying to Bright before, too. He’s not proud of that or anything, but he’s been working with the guy since he was sixteen. Of _course_ he’s lied to his manager before.)

Bright calls another soldier over, getting someone else to man his post as he escorts Amuro through the facility - past a receptionist nodding off over a huge desk with the AE logo behind her, past rooms full of military personnel who are still here despite the late hour.

He gets the sense the place would be far busier if he’d come before the end of the standard working day. As-is, he’s worried he’s still too early, but his father’s departure times are just unpredictable enough that he couldn’t risk another hour or two.

-

His father spends fifteen minutes ignoring Amuro completely, aside from a quick, “I’m busy, wait a second,” when Amuro greets him, then - when prompted - says he doesn’t have time to show Amuro what he’s working on.

“I’ll just wait, then,” Amuro says, sitting on the edge of his dad’s desk. His father frowns, but continues typing away.

Disconnecting some cables, he picks up a component of some sort. He looks up and seems startled to see that Amuro is still there, even though Amuro is barely two feet away.

“Fine, come on, then,” his father says. “I’m installing this in the … you’re not supposed to know about it.”

He doesn’t discourage Amuro from following him down the hall, though. Amuro doesn’t say anything.

They enter a huge hangar bay, and Amuro stares at a huge red wall of metal before his eyes track up. And up. And up, across white and blue, all the way to the golden horns on its head. He knew, in a technical sense, that the Gundam was huge. The top of the machine’s foot is just above eye-level, and the massive scale of it absolutely dwarfs the two of them. It’s hard to really understand, even when faced with it, just how _big_ the Gundam is. The mobile workers he’s seen around the colony are tiny in comparison.

Tem grabs onto a handle and lets it pull him up to a platform in front of the cockpit; Amuro follows just as soon as he can. His father’s ignoring him, as usual, which works for him.

“This,” Tem says, seeming to remember Amuro is there as his son alights on the platform behind him, “is going to help with the responsiveness of the controls. It wasn’t reacting appropriately. We’re still working on the Psycommu - that won’t be ready for at least another year at this rate, but … Ah, you don’t know what that is. Well, you shouldn’t. Just know that this machine can handle anything Zeon throws at us.”

“Zeon’s not throwing anything at us, father,” Amuro reminds him, helpfully.

“If they change their minds.” Tem is elbow-deep in a control panel, fishing out a part that looks a lot like the component he brought with him and tossing it aside before delving back in to put the new part in. He keeps talking, even though it’s hard to hear him when he’s hunched over and facing away like he is. “I don’t actually care what they do with this thing, in the long run. I hope it sees combat just so I can see how it performs in a real-world scenario. All the simulations and test flights in the world can’t match up to that. You have to understand that.”

"Are you saying you want a war?" Amuro asks, disgusted.

“A war would work,” Tem says thoughtfully, sealing the panel shut again and staring at Amuro, looking like, for once in his life, he’s impressed with something his son has said. “That’s what we need. A war! Maybe then they’d finally give me the kind of funding I’ve been asking for.”

-

Within a few minutes, Tem has wandered off, leaving Amuro behind in the mostly-empty hangar.

Amuro stares at the open cockpit. His father didn’t even close it behind him. It yawns open, waiting for him, beckoning, and Amuro finds himself frozen for a few long seconds. This is a truly terrible idea.

But if he doesn’t do it, then what? He’ll go back to work and lie to Bright about his grandma and Mirai will worry about him some more. Char will leave and Amuro will - what? Get that Anaheim internship finally? He could end up on this project himself, if he plays his cards right. As long as they’re still working on it in a few years. There’s no guarantee of that, and no guarantee he’d ever get to pilot it - probably not, since he doesn’t plan to join the military - and no guarantee it would even still be here and not moved to some other colony or just shut down entirely.

There’s no guarantee of anything.

He gets in the mobile suit, closing the hatch behind him. It’s dark, at first, until he settles himself into the chair and starts flipping switches that he recognizes from the simulator. There are some differences in layout, but it all seems close. The screens come on, cameras showing him the hangar bay. He twitches a hand at the controls and the Gundam closes its fist on thin air.

Amuro takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second to steady himself.

Someone’s probably noticed the Gundam activating by now. He doesn’t have a lot of time to sit around. A few more tries fiddling with different settings and controls, and then he takes his first step.

The great machine stumbles, but he gets the other leg out in time to keep from tripping. Right, like the simulator, he just has to …. there, he’s got it walking.

Amuro throws his head back and laughs. He’s got the Gundam working on his first try.

When they were planning this, Char said he’d know what to do, and he really, really doesn’t, but he figures getting the Gundam outside is a good start, out into the dark of night.

Someone’s yelling at him over the onboard radio. “Unidentified pilot, get out of the suit now. Tonight’s testing isn’t supposed to start yet.”

Amuro cocks his head, wondering if he should turn the radio off. Not just yet, he decides. His heart is pounding. This is probably the worst mistake he’s ever made in his life, but also - also he draws one of the suit’s arms back and punches a hole in a closed hangar door, then gets its hands in the opening and drags the metal apart until there’s an opening big enough to get outside. Some terrible part of him feels exhilarated by the action, adrenaline coursing through his veins already at the sheer amount of power at his command.

It’s not like the Federation was going to open the door for him.

-

It always startles Char a little how easy it is to sneak a mobile suit onto a colony, though he’s grateful for it. Amidst the trees, he huddles inside his custom Zaku. Lalah’s already off-colony, waiting aboard the _Zanzibar_ , and either Char is making a mistake or -

The lights on the supposedly top-secret Federation compound all flip on, and like something out of a monster movie, the Gundam tears itself free of a concealed door, taking its first steps out into the little world like a newborn colt.

Char fires off a flare. A calculated risk - he needs Amuro to know where to go, even if it means drawing military attention to him. He’s banking on, once the fight begins, his own skill and the Gundam’s armor to get them both out of here alive. (He told Lalah he wouldn’t be too upset if all that happened today was he escaped and the Gundam was destroyed, and she had said, “You know, I don’t think you believe that either,” and he hadn’t been able to deny it.)

They’re halfway out of the colony when the GMs find them, and Amuro, predictably, freezes up. Char can’t say he understands the impulse, but he’s witnessed it enough times. Frightened people behave irrationally. So - Char springs to action, despite the limited confines of the access tunnel they’re in, and fires, then tries to gesture Amuro onward.

Amuro seems to get the hint, and the Gundam leaps forward jerkily as its jets activate then flare off again. It takes three tries for him to actually get going, but Char has to stop paying attention to cover for him. There’s really not enough room to dodge in here. The Gundam takes a few hits from the GM that’s closest to them, but keeps going, just like Char had hoped. As long as the GM pilot doesn’t hit the cockpit …

Even if the GM does kill Amuro, they can recover the rest of the mobile suit. (He wonders if Amuro thought to suit up before getting in, or if he had time to at all. If the cockpit is breached when they’re out in space - well. Char will have stolen the Gundam, just like he planned. There are other Newtypes. Amuro isn’t even confirmed; it’s still a guess. His loss won’t mean much.)

They make it out, the dark of space with all its stars stretching out all around them, and the Gundam hangs there suspended until it gets fired on _again_ , the force of the hit sending it tumbling off toward the void until Amuro remembers his thrusters and stops it.

Char can’t afford to watch and fuss over him. The first GM is already moving to engage, and there are at least two more following after it - though one turns out to be a Guncannon, once he finally gets a good look at it - and the adrenaline rush of combat sweeps away anything in him that might have borne some passing resemblance to empathy.

Combat is almost frustratingly rare - these bright, flaring moments of violence, then months and years of nothing - so Char is in no particular rush here. Moving _fast_ , sure, but half of what he’s doing is sweeping through space to taunt the enemy mobile suits, drawing them one way and the other to confuse their pilots. It's a risk he's willing to take to make the thrill of battle last a little longer.

Not for too long, of course. They have to get out of here before the Feddies can launch any more. He’s got two of the GMs right on his tail at once, but spins, dropping below them, getting one with his rifle and kicking it into the other.

That sends the second GM crashing into the side of the colony. Not through the wall, thankfully, but it seems to daze the pilot, who hangs there briefly before kicking off again. Char just waits where he is, ready to move in three, two -

Then the Gundam reenters his field of view, beam saber blazing bright against the darkness. Its movements are still a bit uncoordinated, but the GM is focused enough on Char that it doesn’t even seem to notice before its beheaded.

Char grins wildly. Foolish. Amuro should know better than that, but he’s new. The GM is blinded by the loss of its cameras, but it lashes out, shooting in Amuro’s general direction, and somehow a lucky couple of hits directly to a joint manages to remove the Gundam’s arm. That’s more than Char expected out of the current crop of GMs, in terms of weaponry. This pilot is good.

Char can’t think of a good way to signal to Amuro that they should leave, so he swoops in, grabbing the Gundam’s detached arm and gestures off toward the distant _Zanzibar_ , even though they can’t see it from here.

The decapitated GM is flailing, its pilot probably trying to orient based on short-range radar alone, barely effective at the best of times with the amount of Minovsky particles generated by even this brief combat. The wreck of two other suits and the bulk of the colony behind them help confuse matters, too, so Char leads Amuro along just above one of Side 7’s walls before heading back out into the void toward the waiting ship.

-

On board the Zanzibar, Char gets out of his suit, says hello to Ramba, then drifts his way over to the Gundam, floating across the hangar to the now one-armed suit. The other arm is floating near the airlock, just waiting for whichever unfortunate techs have to retrieve and repair then reattach it.

Char’s pleased. They got a whole entire Gundam out of that stunt. And - he bangs on the cockpit - a new pilot, hopefully, unless Amuro decides he’s had enough.

The Gundam opens up with a pneumatic hiss, and Amuro unstraps himself from the pilot’s chair, staring up at Char sort of wild-eyed. He has a backpack with him, which he slings over one shoulder, and a little green metal - thing - that he ignores for now.

Amuro kicks himself out of the cockpit and is on Char at once, grabbing his shoulders and pressing his forehead to the glass of Char's helmet, wild-eyed. “I didn’t think we’d have to fight anyone -“

“You thought they’d just let the Gundam go, just like that?” Char pats at Amuro’s forearm, but doesn’t push him away.

Amuro lets him go, drifting slowly backwards as he scrubs his hands over his face. “I thought they wouldn’t notice!”

“Wouldn’t notice you stealing this.” Char makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating the mobile suit that Amuro’s still sitting inside. Amuro seems to notice the Gundam again for the first time. “Their prize mobile suit.”

Amuro pushes himself off the hatch, drifting upward to examine where a beam had struck the Gundam's armor, chipping the paint. There are deeper wounds scored into the suit's surface, too, but this first one he notices has him transfixed. Char, watching him, raises the glass of his helmet finally, taking a deep breath of the ship’s air when he does. It’s more metallic than colony air, recycled for longer with fewer trees and plants involved.

Humanity’s continued survival out here, despite the odds, never fails to fill him with a sense of pride.

"You did well, for your first fight," Char says, following him to pat him on the back. 

Amuro takes a deep breath then grabs one of Char’s hands, clinging to it with both of his, eyes gone wide. “Char …”

“Hm?”

Amuro steels himself, looking determined and _hungry_ , and Char wonders if he’s working up the courage to kiss him again; instead, Amuro says, “I don’t want to be that scared ever again. I want you to teach me how to fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am Aware the zanzibar is a class of ship but listen: listen sometimes a ship just has the name of its class and that's fine
> 
> also: i'm tentatively putting the number of chapters at ? but i have no idea if or when i'll write more of this. it is what it is


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's right

“You left Miss Artesia behind?” Ramba asks, incredulously, and with little preamble. Char hasn’t even mentioned her yet.

He doesn’t lower his head or look away or anything else that might indicate shame or regret. “She wasn’t involved. It’s safer to keep her out of this.”

“And if they figure out who you were, and that she’s related to you -“

“I didn’t interact with her at all,” Char says. “So she’ll be fine. There’s no reason for anyone on Side 7 to assume we had any connection whatsoever.”

“That’s cold, abandoning your own sister.”

Char shakes his head. “Like I said. It’s safer for her. If we come under attack - she wouldn’t be able to help with that. She would just be in danger.”

“It’s not that hard to figure out the ship’s armaments,” Ramba points out. “Having more hands available doesn’t hurt, and I would rather know that Miss Artesia is safe than just hoping for the best -“

All Char can do is shrug. “Well, she is where she is, and we’re not going back. So you’ll have to stay uncomfortable.”

“You’re awfully cold, aren’t you, Casval.”

“It’s Char. Casval died years ago.”

“Hm.” Frustrated, Ramba turns away, putting his focus back on the current situation on the bridge. As of this moment, it looks like they’re in the clear, but there are sure to be ships mustering in pursuit soon. Nothing’s showing up on the sensors, and the space behind them is mostly clear of Minovsky particles; were someone behind them, they would know. Barring exciting new developments in particle-based cloaking, of course, which is always possible; Char wasn’t kept abreast of every development in every department at Anaheim. 

The company is compartmentalized already on purpose, and even moreso when you’re a low-level technician. He knows aspects of the V project, and that’s it. 

“And what about that guy you brought with you?” Ramba asks after a moment. “Is he with Anaheim, or …”

This, at least, gives Char something to laugh about. “He’s a barista.”

Ramba turns to stare at him again. This time, there’s no hard edge to his incredulity, just sheer, unadulterated bafflement. “A what?”

Char pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead, grinning. “You heard me.”

“A barista who knows how to pilot a top-secret mobile suit?”

Spreading his hands out to show they’re empty, Char does his best to sound humble: “I’ve been busy.”

Ramba snorts, shaking his head. “Brat. Dragging a barista into this. You couldn’t have gone for one of your coworkers? Got someone with actual knowledge of the project, if you had to kidnap *anyone*?”

“Why do you think I kidnapped him?”

Ramba just rolls his eyes. Seeing him again, after all these years, is surprisingly comfortable. Last time they met, Char was very young, but knowing there’s avuncular familiarity and loyalty there already, puts him at ease in a way few people can.

“He volunteered! He wanted to come. Maybe he wanted to learn how to make coffee in zero gravity.”

Ramba laughs outright, this time. “What, are you going to hire him as a cook when we get back to Zum City? You want your own personal barista at Deikun Palace?”

“Ah, is that where we’re headed for now? I wouldn’t think we’d go there directly.”

“Not directly,” Ramba agrees. “But eventually. We’ll be changing ships halfway between Luna II and Side 3, first, to shake any pursuit. As long as we aren’t attacked before then.”

-

Three hours later, of course, the Federation catches up to them. Char makes a break from the bridge to Amuro’s quarters, banging on the door, then opening it anyway; Amuro, bleary-eyed, sits up in bed.

“What?”

“The Feddies sent a ship after us,” Char says, leaning in the doorway. “Thought you should know.”

“What?” Amuro asks again, rubbing at his eyes. He shakes his head, sitting upright and finally seeming alert. He’s quick to wake; that’s nice. “Are they attacking?”

“They will soon enough.” Char shrugs. “You don’t have to do anything. I just wanted to warn you in case the ship takes damage. The alarm’ll sound in a moment. You should put on a normal suit.”

Amuro stares for a moment, then he’s on his feet. He’s only wearing boxers at the moment, and Char allows himself to appreciate the sight before turning to leave.

“Wait!” Amuro says; he’s half into a suit already, hopping on one leg as he pulls it up. “The - can anyone else pilot the Gundam?”

“Oh, you don’t have to fight,” Char tells him cheerfully. “We’ve got a crew, don’t worry.”

“None of your suits match up to its potential -“

“And you just flew your first sortie three hours ago and lost an arm. I just wanted you to know so you could stay safe.” Char waves over his shoulder, letting the door shut behind him. Amuro will be along soon enough. (He motivated Amuro the same way when they were just annoying each other at the coffee shop, too - _oh, you don’t have to make that drink if it’s too hard!_ )

He hurries toward the hangar bay to check in in with the engineers, makes sure his own suit’s been rearmed, then gives the poor guy a wink, thanking him for making sure the Gundam is _literally_ rearmed. In the last few hours, the crew has gotten the detached arm patched back on. Looks like shit, since they haven’t had quite enough time to finish the job, but it’s better than a one-armed mech joining the fray.

Not that he expects Amuro to actually join the fray. It’s a chance to get Amuro used to real combat, though, which will need to happen sooner or later if the poor barista’s going to be any real use. Might as well try and get it out of the way now.

“Oi, Casval!” Ortega yells at him from halfway across the hangar bay, leaning out of the cockpit of his mobile suit. “Thought you were the fastest, why’re you still hanging out down there?”

“Fuck off,” Char calls back cheerfully, nodding to the engineer and finally going to his own Zaku. He jumps up to his waiting Zaku, opening the hatch; he pats the upper edge of the opening before swinging himself inside, grateful to the by now years-old machine for still being tuned just how he likes it. When he slides in, he’s still wearing his civilian clothes, because he knows it’ll annoy the Tri-Stars to see him without his normal suit on. They’ve only sortied together once before; not many chances for combat in times like these, and Char’s been undercover anyway, away from any chance to participate in whatever skirmishes might arise.

That he’s still piloting a Zaku II, rather than upgrading to a Rick Dom or some newer model, is mostly habit and vanity; there hasn’t been time to repaint any of the other suits in the fleet, and it wouldn’t do for him to hop in one of the Tri-Star’s mobile suits. He’ll get a new one after this little ordeal is over, he figures. Once he’s back home.

A strange thought, going home. And strange to think he’s going to _need_ a new suit. The Federation and Zeon have been carefully avoiding war for years at this point, far longer than he thought they’d ever manage, but unrest on the colonies is growing and spreading. Even Side 7 has had its share of protests in recent months. (He wonders what Amuro thought of those. He wonders what Amuro thinks of any of this, really. Not the time to wonder about that now.)

He launches just after all of the Tri-Stars, but zips out ahead of them, mostly to annoy them; that earns a, “Knock it off!” from Mash, and a laugh from Gaia. The Zanzibar is only just starting to broadcast Minovsky particles, readying the battlefield.

Behind the four of them, the Gundam launches, too. Amuro even announces a dutiful, “Ready!” as he goes. Amuro’s smart, and doesn’t follow closely, instead hanging back just off the ship’s starboard side. Char’s just pleased he’s there at all.

The Feddies are on the approach, and Char races out to meet them. They’ve got six mobile suits and their ship, against an effective force of four, with the Gundam as a wildcard. The Federation are only fielding second-generation GMs this time.Char worked on the GM for a time, and knows just how many pitfalls that project ran into - contract troubles with Anaheim, funding problems on Earth, a lack of suitable project managers on the colonies willing to cooperate for long with the ever-changing whims of higher management and the discontent of colonists not interested in having their homes turned into weapon development sites.

That the mobile suits themselves even exist, let alone with competent construction, is almost a miracle.

This batch won’t exist for long, though. Char’s going to help see to that.

Though he isn’t usually one for recklessness, Char feels like showing off a bit. He’s back in the groove of piloting already, and with Amuro watching - well. Amuro’s going to need a standard to compete against, so Char wants to set the bar high. Not that the Tri-Stars aren’t already a high bar, but Char wants to outcompete them, too.

Being back in the Zaku II’s cockpit is like coming home to an old friend. The suit is quick and responsive, faster than anything else on the battlefield, and Char has joined the fight before the Feddies know what’s hit them.

Six on four, with a battleship backing them up, is difficult, but it’s clear early on that the Zanzibar’s crew are the more experienced pilots. The GMs may, to some extent, be the superior suits, but that only goes so far in actual combat.

A little hard work, a little effort, and the Federation forces are cut in half within ten minutes of the combat’s outset. Four on three, then four on two.

Even with the Federation battleship opening fire -

Char gets distracted, noting the Gundam on the move out of the periphery of his Zaku’s camera. Wherever he’s going, he’s not headed in as backup. Curious.

But Char can’t spend too much time fretting over that when there’s a risk of death involved, so he turns his attention back to the mobile suit he’s fighting against. He hacks into the GM’s chest with the heat hawk, and sends the suit spinning off into the void with a well-placed kick; it doesn’t move of its own volition again, after that.

Finally he can check what Amuro’s up to, which is, apparently, a daring approach on the Federation battleship. He takes out two of the ship’s guns with the Gundam’s beam saber, and Char can’t help but laugh.

Amuro tries _disabling_ the ship, not destroying it, which is absurd, and Char is of half a mind to let him get away with it when Ortega makes the decision for him and shoots the now-disarmed ship right in the bridge.

The Gundam whips around, somehow managing to seem surprised, and grabs the Rick Dom by the arm; Char wishes he were listening in on that conversation. Too bad.

With the situation as handled as it’s going to be, he heads back in to the Zanzibar’s welcoming embrace. Mash is already out of his suit, and Gaia’s right behind Char. The other two will be along soon enough.

-

Ortega and Amuro start arguing as soon as they get out of their mobile suits, picking up a conversation clearly already in-progress.

“You didn’t have to kill them -“

“They saw our ship and could have figured out our heading,” Ortega says, shoving Amuro, who drifts backwards until he bumps up against the black metal of Ortega’s mobile suit. “Plus they saw Char there, the reckless asshole.”

“They don’t know who he is,” Mash yells from halfway across the hangar, laughing. “Who gives a fuck if they see him or not?”

Amuro fixes on that comment, because of course he does: “What do you mean, who he is?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ortega declares.

Char rolls his eyes, and heads for the bridge. Amuro will find out soon enough, one way or another. They’re past the point where it particularly matters, Char hopes.

-

By the time dinner rolls around, Char can no longer come up with excuses to avoid Amuro, who seems unreasonably incensed.

“Why did we have to destroy that ship?” Amuro sits across from him in the dining room, and - when Char doesn’t answer quickly enough - kicks him in the shin.

“I thought Ortega told you already. We can’t have them reporting back with data about our capabilities or ship.”

“They already know about our ship from when we left Side 7,” Amuro points out.

“Even so.” Char shrugs. “The peace we’re in right now, it’s not going to last forever. A positive ID on this ship would send the colonies into war even faster. Unless you want a war?”

“Of course not! But those people didn’t have to die. Why does this have to - there’s no reason for a war.”

“You don’t honestly believe that. It hasn’t even been a day since you asked me to teach you to fight.”

Amuro is quiet, at that.

“The fact that it _hasn’t_ become all-out war at this point … No one wants a war. What people want is for their ideals to be upheld and accepted. And the ideal the colonies want is to be free to determine their own future, without being held back by those who cling to Earth. Since the Earth Federation won’t allow that, since those of us who live in space are being forced to live under their rule without even deciding our own leadership - how else are we meant to get what we want?”

Chewing at his thumbnail, Amuro looks down at the table. “How many people actually want all that, and how many people just want to live peacefully?”

“Under whose definition of peace? How much should we sacrifice for that false peace, that relies on being at the Federation’s whim?” Char laughs wryly, and shakes his head. “You have to have noticed the protests even on Side 7. Zeon’s been trying for years to do it the peaceful way. Endless talks, endless negotiations, and for what? What progress has there been?”

“So you’re with Zeon, not just a corporate spy.” Amuro folds his hands. “And that’s why you wanted the Gundam, for this war of yours.”

“It’s not mine,” Char says. “It’s the inevitable tide of history. One way or another, it’s going to happen; better to participate than be swept along. It’s not as if I’m the one making decisions here, not really. But I’m choosing to take part in history instead of hiding from it.”

Amuro picks at his meal, which he’s ignored up until now. Eating seems like an afterthought. In the back of his mind, he can imagine Fraw Bow yelling at him about it. His dinner doesn’t taste like anything, but he chews methodically, swallows. Looks up at Char again briefly before looking away. “Why bring me into it?”

“I seem to remember you volunteering,” Char points out helpfully. “Everything you’ve done, you’ve made a choice. Are you going to act like getting into a fight when I told you to stay safe wasn’t a decision you made? Or like I forced you to help me steal the Gundam?”

“Now you sound like Sayla. She’s always saying things like that. But sometimes - just because I. I thought …” Amuro shakes his head, then stands abruptly. “I’m going to my room.”

“Oh?” Char smirks. “Is that an invitation?”

Amuro looks like he’s genuinely considering it for a moment, but ends up making a noise of disgust and turning to walk away.

“Wait, wait.” Char hops to his feet, following after, putting a hand on Amuro’s shoulder. This offer, for once, is sincere: “Listen. Our next stop won’t be useful to you, but when we get to Side 3 - I can get you a job, or put you on a ship back to Side 7. Whatever you want.”

“I don’t understand you at all.” This fact seems to surprise Amuro as he says it. “I really - we barely know each other, don’t we?”

Char shrugs. Three years of annoying each other on opposite sides of a transaction at a coffee shop hasn’t given either of them much to go off of. Amuro is cute and surly and throws himself into things when he feels challenged. Char is - he wonders what Amuro thinks of him, after all that time. Their meeting, the convenience of Amuro’s father working on the right project at the right time, all carries a certain weight of inevitability. Char wants to kiss him again but doesn’t, not now. (Sometimes he thinks he understands Amuro better than he understands himself, and isn’t _that_ sad. Amuro not understanding him makes sense, but still hurts, somehow.) “That’s true enough.”

“But even so - I’m going to pilot the Gundam.” Amuro straightens, looking up at Char, his gaze intense. With Char’s sunglasses still on, Amuro has to stare down his own reflection, in part, doubled in dark mirrored glass. “You’re right that I got myself into this situation. And I don’t understand you, but that’s not … that doesn’t mean I can’t, right? There has to be a way out of this besides war, so I’m going to stay right here with you, as long as it takes.”

Char takes a deep breath, and finally remembers to remove his hand from Amuro’s shoulder. There’s something compelling about how earnest Amuro is. It makes Char want to try, if even for a moment, to be kind to him. He had a whole plan, but: “Listen, you don’t have to make that decision yet. Don’t be too hasty.”

When Amuro turns away again, Char lets him go without another word. (Even so - when Amuro looks over his shoulder, just the once, Char’s still standing there watching him go.)

-

Amuro’s halfway to his quarters when he feels an old, familiar pressure, and finds himself turning down a different corridor entirely.

As usual, Lalah is unsurprised to see him, even though he wanders into her quarters unannounced. “Hello, Amuro.”

“Lalah.” Amuro stares at her, then sits down on the edge of her bed, fingers curling into the sheets. Lalah’s sitting at her desk, working on something small with a needle and thread. Amuro can’t see what she’s making, but - a swan, he thinks, probably.

“You’re right,” she says, cheerfully, even though he doesn’t remember speaking. “Anyway, how are you? I’m glad the Captain brought you along.”

“You mean Char?” Amuro rubs at the back of his head. “Lalah, I shouldn’t be here. I mean - he’s right, I chose to be, but this is … I’m an engineer, not a pilot.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Amuro says. He shakes his head.

“You don’t have to be any one thing,” Lalah points out. “You can be whoever you want. Maybe this is who you’re supposed to be, or maybe it’s not. How else will you find out if you don’t try?”

“I guess.” Amuro looks down at his knees. “Lalah, tell me about Char. I’ve known him this long, but I don’t … You know him, right?”

“He saved me, when I was younger,” Lalah tells him. “I think it’s better if you get to know him yourself, but even so - if you want to know how we met, maybe that will help.”

“Maybe.”

It’s been a long day. As Lalah talks, Amuro lies back on the bed, arms behind his head, and looks up at the ceiling. When he closes his eyes, he can almost picture what she’s saying.

-

Sayla Mass has not been having a good week. Work was awful from the jump; then Amuro stopped showing up for his shifts, and _then_ on Friday evening someone broke into the apparently-extant secret military facility on Side 7 and stole an experimental mobile suit.

Now Amuro’s been missing for hours and she thinks Casval must be gone again, and when Bright calls her at home late Friday night - so late it's nearly Saturday - after the hole in the colony’s been plugged and people are back in their homes, Sayla’s about at the end of her rope: “I’m going to be leaving the colony, so I won’t be working with you anymore,” Bright says, apologetic. “But I recommended to the owner that you should be the new manager -“

“You’re leaving?” Sayla asks, flatly. Everyone always leaves. She doesn’t even have any special attachment to Bright, but it seems fitting that her brother and her favorite coworker vanish and now her boss is going, too. “Where are you going?”

“You remember that incident yesterday?”

“Ah, so it’s Federation business,” Sayla says, feeling very tired already. Until she gets an idea, that is.

“I’ve always thought this post was …” Bright is quiet long enough that Sayla pulls her phone away from her ear to check that the call hasn’t dropped, but then he starts talking again. “I suppose it’s good that I’ll finally be of actual use. I still can’t believe Amuro -”

“Amuro what?” Sayla asks. “I know he’s missing; did he die? What happened? Is he alright?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Sayla is starting to think that, perhaps, Amuro’s been kidnapped; her brother was up to _something_ here, and the theft of that mobile suit is clearly his doing. She didn’t take him for a kidnapper, but then, he’s been avoiding her for years. What does she know? She swipes a hand over her face, taking a steadying breath to calm herself. Even though she’s on the phone, even though Bright can’t see her, she doesn’t want to let her despair show.

“When are you leaving?” she asks, finally, resolute.

“Tomorrow morning at five.” Bright laughs. “At least it’s no earlier than I’m usually up, right?”

“How convenient,” Sayla agrees. “Well, thank you for putting in the good word for me on that manager position.”

“I know you’ll be able to handle it,” Bright tells her, very seriously.

Sayla knows she could, if she wanted to. She’s not going to. She makes herself smile - an old trick; people can hear that sort of thing, even over the phone. False cheer’s easier to believe when it’s not in person. “Thank you.”

Sayla sets an alarm on her phone for very, very early in the morning, and texts another of her coworkers to let them know she won’t be coming in tomorrow.

She’s going to be on that ship when it leaves, no matter what. She’ll find a reason, even if it means revealing her identity after all these years.


	4. Chapter 4

The _Zanzibar_ lands at Luna II with little incident. They dock cleanly, their approach authorized and uncomplicated. Amuro’s excited to get off the ship and look around. He doesn’t know much about the asteroid. It exists. People live there, but it’s not a colony per-se. In theory, it’s a Federation base.

Stopping at a military base with stolen military technology seems pretty stupid to Amuro, but Ortega just laughs at him when he brings it up, and Mash tells him not to worry about it, so he gives up on that train of thought. It’s not like he can ask Char, who’s possibly the least reliable source of information Amuro’s met in his life.

A tall, stately blonde woman in Federation uniform comes to meet them as they prepare to disembark. Ramba Ral - whose exact rank Amuro hasn’t sussed out yet - is the one to greet her, with a handshake and a wink that she returns.

Amuro keeps staring at her, until Char elbows him in the side, amused. “Like what you see?”

“What? No! I mean -“ Amuro flusters too easily when Char’s involved. He rubs his hands across his face. Ramba and the woman are a bit too far away to hear. “What are they talking about?”

“Hopefully about the logistics of switching ships,” Char says, leaning back against the wall. He doesn’t go any closer, making no effort to eavesdrop. He seems wholly unconcerned, and Amuro allows that confidence to put him at ease, for now at least.

Then Ramba comes back, smiling all too broadly, “Well, looks like we’re taking a little vacation here for a few days.”

“Why?” Amuro asks, helplessly. “I thought we were refueling and then leaving.” 

Ramba puts a hand between his shoulders, nudging him forward, and Amuro stumbles before getting his footing again and trotting a few steps ahead to prove he doesn’t need to be pushed along.

“Seriously, what’s going on?”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” The woman Ramba was talking to winks at him, and Amuro looks away quickly. At least Char is steady and calm at his side. That’s only reassuring until he dares to think about it for more than a few seconds, at which point he gets increasingly annoyed that Char is so relaxed when he thought they’d be on the asteroid for maybe ten minutes, instead of stuck here for days on orders from some Federation soldier.

-

They get a suite at a hotel, and the woman Ramba spoke with is _still_ with them. When they get into the room, she tosses her jacket aside first thing, and lets her hair down.

“What are you looking at?” she asks Amuro, laughing, and he makes a face back at her.

“Nothing! Nothing.”

“You’re cute,” she declares. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m not anybody,” Amuro says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“This is Amuro Ray,” Char tells her, throwing an arm around Amuro’s shoulders and pulling him to his side. “He’s our new hotshot pilot. _Don’t worry about it._ ”

“Hey, fuck you!”

Char laughs, seeming more than a little smug. “Calm down, calm down. That was a compliment.”

“So that’s your type, huh,” the woman says. “That explains a lot. Well, Amuro, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Crowley Hamon. I’m sure getting to know you will be fun.”

“Aren’t you …” Amuro pauses, searching for words as he gestures in the direction of her discarded jacket. “You know.”

“You really thought I was a Federation soldier? Oh, kid.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “ _How_ long have you known Char, exactly?”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

She winks, again, and Amuro stares down at his shoes. “It’s just that nothing’s ever that straightforward when he’s involved.”

“Ah, Lady Hamon, giving away all my secrets.” Char presses his free hand to his chest, leaning dramatically against Amuro’s side as he does. “Watch out for her, Amuro, she’s a dangerous woman.”

-

Char wakes up the exact same time he always does the next morning, feeling tired of Luna II already. Their plans have been delayed: apparently there’s some unrest on Side 3 that’s delayed the ship they were meant to transfer to, and Hamon’s said it’s best not to go on in the Zanzibar at this particular moment. He trusts her judgment on this one.

The Tri-Stars are hanging back with the ship, acting as muscle in case anyone tries to start anything. It’s not _likely_ , but you never know, and Char’s always been a fan of contingency plans. Even hasty, thrown-together ones.

He leaves the room he staked out for himself, heading in to the communal part of the suite where the mini-kitchen is in hopes that Hamon will have planned ahead and bought some food - she has not - and discovers Amuro committing what might be the worst atrocity Char’s ever seen in his life.

“What are you _doing_?”

Amuro stares at him, unimpressed. He looks down at the counter and at his hands, then back at Char. After a long moment, he finally explains himself. “Making coffee.”

He has a can of cheap coffee grounds and a coffee filter and he’s using a _hotel room coffee maker_ and Char is appalled, frankly. “What ever happened to your pride?”

Amuro takes a while to think this one over, before giving up entirely. It’s too early to try and figure out what Char’s berating him for. He still bristles at the implication that he’s doing something embarrassing, he just doesn’t know _what_. “My pride in what, now?”

“You’re supposed to be above this sort of base tawdriness.” Char puts a hand on the kitchen counter, leaning his hip up against it. “But here you are, using a common coffee maker like the rest of us.”

“Do you think baristas don’t drink coffee?” Amuro asks, his frustration slowly giving way to confusion.

“Oh, Amuro,” Char says with a dramatic sigh. “Amuro Ray, the hero of the coffee shop, brought low by a cheap coffee maker.”

It’s at this point that Amuro starts ignoring him, no matter how melodramatic Char gets. It’s only after Amuro’s actually _had_ a cup of coffee that he bothers speaking again, and by that point Char has picked up a newspaper that was slid in under the door and sat down in one of the hotel room’s arm chairs.

Ramba Ral wanders in during this quiet period, coming out of the room he’s sharing with Hamon, getting coffee for them both in silence, then vanishing back into the room again.

At no point does Ramba say a word, nor even seem to notice they’re there, despite the fact that Amuro pours his coffee for him and even hands it to him. Watching him leave, bleary-eyed and carrying the two mugs very carefully - Amuro makes only a token effort to stifle his laughter.

The only thing that stops his laughter is the way Char’s watching him over the paper. Amuro swipes a hand over his face, trying to be serious again. Finally, Amuro says, “You were kidding.”

“I was, yes.” 

“It’s not like I asked to be stuck in a hotel with shitty coffee. At least it’s not instant, right?” Amuro raises his eyebrows. “If anything, it’s your fault I’ve been brought to this point. And don’t tell me my own choices led me here; you’re to blame for this one.”

“I really did think you’d be pickier, though.” Char folds the newspaper in half vertically, not even pretending to read it anymore, and leans forward to stare intently at Amuro. It’s not even eight in the morning and he already has his sunglasses on. “More discerning in your choice of caffeine.”

“I honestly don’t care either way. It’s all the same to me.” Amuro yawns, and gnaws at his thumb for a moment before catching himself and dropping his hand to his side. “And it wasn’t like I was working there out of some deep and abiding passion for coffee. Dad just thought I needed a job, and it was a good way to get money for my hobbies.”

“I thought you must like it on some level.”

Amuro narrows his eyes. “Do you know what jobs are? Like, have you ever had one in your life?”

“You saw me pilot my Zaku,” Char says. For a second, he tries to turn the page on the paper, but runs into trouble because of the ungainly way he folded it. He shakes it out, attempting to look dignified and as if he weren’t just temporarily bested by some thin folded paper. “And I worked at Anaheim. I’ve had jobs!”

“You have _not_. Not like a normal person, anyway.” Amuro laughs, almost despite himself. “Does it count as a real job if you’re only there to steal state secrets?”

“Spying is a job, too.” Char straightens, puffing up his chest, looking melodramatic in his self importance. 

“You’re the worst.” Spying is sort of a job, maybe, but it’s not as if Char had relied on his work at Anaheim to support himself, probably. Then again, Amuro doesn’t - didn’t - rely on his shifts at the coffee shop to support himself, either. Maybe it’s hypocritical of him to bang on about real jobs, or maybe the problem is just Char. Everything about Char is a problem. There are more important things to worry about than his job history, in any case: “So what are we doing while we’re stuck here, anyway?”

“Waiting?”

Amuro feels his face scrunch up in frustration.

“No, no, don’t worry. I had an idea.”

For entirely too long, Amuro waits, then finally says, since Char apparently refuses to divulge any information without prompting, “Fine, what was your idea?”

At long last, Char tosses the newspaper aside entirely, and gets to his feet to answer: “I said I’d teach you how to fight, so I’m going to teach you how to fight. Come on, let’s go.”

-

Making good on his word, Char takes Amuro back to the _Zanzibar_ , waving off the Tri-Stars when they ask for an update - because he doesn’t have one - and shows Amuro the ropes. 

It’s true that Amuro does have some experience already - those few hours of practice he scraped through alone, the short sorties he’s flown - but more training will help. The lower stakes are useful, too. The pressure of being at risk of death _can_ produce extraordinary results borne of desperation, but it can also get promising young pilots killed, and Char would really rather Amuro not die. This is the second young Newtype he’s managed to scout out, and he’d quite like it if they both lived long enough to display their true potential.

What that potential might be, he doesn’t know, but that’s the fun of it. He’s seen some of what Lalah can do, and now it’s Amuro’s turn. (He should, maybe, be a little less protective of Lalah. She’s eager to be of use in protecting him and taking care of him, and that makes him a little soft. The fact that Amuro is more concerned with his own survival than anything Char does makes him interesting.

So Char runs him through drills, and Amuro meets his expectations every time. None of his results are _quite_ as impressive as Char had hoped, but there’s time for that to change. He’s still far ahead of where any average rookie pilot would be with similar amounts of time in the cockpit. Char doesn’t know what it is he expects, exactly.

At some point he’s going to have to face him head-to-head, find out what it’s like to fight against the Gundam himself. (He takes a break, briefly, to try it in simulation himself. Why not. It feels desperate in a way most fights he’s been in haven’t, and he’s glad to know he and Amuro are on the same side for now. He wins, but - beating a simulation is different than beating a real mobile suit and real pilot. There are always more variables than the computer can account for.)

Amuro’s an eager student, anyway, quick-witted and sharp and with a thorough and instinctual understanding of the Gundam’s capabilities. He really was a good pick, and Char’s pleased he wanted to tag along. If he hadn’t - well. If he hadn’t, Char would still be on Side 7, working patiently under Tem Ray’s indifferent leadership. Without Amuro, there was no plan to steal the Gundam, not yet.

By midafternoon, Amuro’s tired, and Char decides he’s earned a break.

“You had me doing drills all morning,” Amuro gripes, following Char back to the hotel. “Next time I want to fight you.”

“You think you’re ready for that?”

“Yes?” Amuro pauses. “No, I don’t know. How else will I know if I don’t try it?”

“Fine, then,” Char says. Luna II is dark and quiet; they walk down a metal corridor lit only by dim LEDs. “If I win, I get a date.”

“With who?”

The surprise of that questions startles a laugh out of Char; the sound echoes. “Don’t be like that! With me, obviously.”

“Then what if I win?”

“You’re not going to,” Char assures him, faux-soothing, “but anyway, I’ll give you a kiss, how about that?”

Amuro scuffs a foot against the ground, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re the worst.”

“That’s not a no,” Char says, smirking at him askance. “So it’s a deal.”

Amuro narrows his eyes. “Remember that time I punched you? I could do that again.”

“Mmhm.”

The trouble with Luna II is this: there isn’t much in the way of civilian recreation available. The hotel exists for guests and visitors, but otherwise it’s a very barebones facility, focused on administration and military personnel. Most of it isn’t open to the public.

When they get back, Hamon and Ramba have gotten food from somewhere, and are just finishing off lunch. Lalah waves cheerfully, and Char wonders how late she slept in.

The rest of the afternoon is quiet and peaceful. Amuro vanishes into his room for a while, that little robot of his half-audible even through the door as he tinkers with it.

Some part of Char thinks - this is all wrong. He’s not supposed to have days like this, spent surrounded by people he likes. It’s not something life ever promised him nor something he’s ever expected. Ever since his father nearly died, since the attempts on his life from an early age - he hasn’t had an easy, comfortable time of it. He hasn’t earned this yet. At least he can take comfort in knowing that it won’t last.

Hamon leaves for a while. Char ends up on the couch watching an old movie with Lalah, who sits with her knees drawn up to her chest, entranced.

Halfway through - more than an hour of silence on Lalah’s part - she says, “You know you’re allowed to have things, don’t you?”

Char flexes his fingers, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back to the screen, but never at her. “Having things and keeping them is different. No one’s entitled to that, in the end.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. But that’s no reason not to enjoy what you have while you can.”

It’s not actually something Char wants to talk about. It’s not something he even mentioned, but that's the thing with Lalah. She knows, and - she cares, clearly, but what she _doesn’t_ care about is whether or not Char is actually ready to discuss a topic or not. It’s a strength, but Char sometimes finds himself resenting it, however unfairly.

Lalah watches him for a moment, then closes her eyes, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her hands are clasped daintily in her lap. 

“Are you tired?” Char slouches a little against the couch, tipping his head so his cheek is pressed against her hair. He can smell the same cheap hotel shampoo in her hair that he used this morning. He’ll have to see if he can’t get something better, somewhere, somehow. At least it’s better than what they’ve got on the _Zanzibar_ , he supposes. “I can turn off the movie.”

“No, no,” Lalah says. “I’m awake. Oh, wait.”

Char almost asks what he’s meant to wait for when he hears the doorknob turn. He puts a hand over the back of the couch, leaning around to watch as Hamon returns.

“Captain. Lalah.” She nods, looking worryingly serious. “I don’t think that change of ship is happening anymore. Things on Side 3 are … it’s as bad as when you were a kid again, and I don’t know that it’s going to go our way this time.”

Char sits up straighter, at that. “What do you mean? Is my father alright?”

“For now,” Hamon assures him. Char hasn’t seen his father since he was a child, but knowing he’s there, governing the colonies at Side 3 - that his movement has continued however troubled and fractious it sometimes is - has been a constant comfort. 

“Maybe you and Ramba shouldn’t have come,” Char says, pushing his sunglasses up. He leans forward, finding the remote and turning off the TV; Lalah sits up, too, no longer leaning against him. “If you were there -“

“There’s no guarantee it would have changed anything.”

“There’s no guarantee it wouldn’t have.” Char runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, then tries to straighten it again quickly. “So if there’s no ship - what, we go ahead with the Zanzibar anyway?”

“You still want to go?”

“Of course,” Char says. “Where else would we go at this point?”

Hamon looks aside. “Ramba and I will figure something out.”

“No, no, that’s absurd,” Char says. “I’m not a child anymore. You don’t need to look out for me like that.” He appreciates the care, but - he’s a grown man who’s been operating on his own for years. They don’t know him anymore, not like they used to.

At that, Hamon laughs dryly. “I’m aware, don’t worry. It’s just that - well, the Federation doesn’t like what you’ve done, the Zabis don’t like your father, and your father’s been pushing his luck on the limits of what he’s allowed to do as the appointed governor of a side. There are … The Zabis have gained a lot of traction in pointing out that no one actually chose Zeon as their leader. I guess Gihren’s found an angle that works after all this time.”

“Looks like I picked the right time to come back, then.”

-

They don’t get a new ship to throw the Federation off their trail, but Char _does_ get a new mobile suit, transferred to the Zanzibar in the middle of the night from a sympathetic ship that left Side 3 just before the current spate of unrest closed the docks to all traffic. _That_ information he picks up from the evening news, which has finally started reporting on the situation.

“So are we not going there anymore?” Amuro asks, finally emerging from his room, Haro bouncing after him. He leans over the back of the couch, resting his chin on top of Char’s head as he looks at the news report. “Oh, I know that guy!”

“What guy?” Char asks, laughing. “Zeon? You’ve met him?”

“No, the reporter,” Amuro says. “When would I have met Zeon? Have _you_?”

Ramba absolutely cracks up, at that. Amuro stares at him.

“Char, you absolute bastard,” Hamon says, as fondly as possible. 

“I don’t like any of you any more,” Amuro declares, though he doesn’t move.

“Anyway, listen, that doesn’t matter,” Char says, waving a hand dismissively. “Who cares who I know. We’re still going to try it. Side 3 or bust, right?”

“Hopefully not bust.” Amuro makes a face. “I’ve got more practice in the Gundam, and those other guys - Ortega and the rest of them? - seemed like good pilots, so …”

“I really don’t know what you’re imagining happening, but I’m interested.” Char reaches up blindly, but still manages to pat Amuro’s cheek. Amuro makes a noise of disgust and backs away, retreating to sit on a stool at the kitchen counter.

“We need to get to Side 3’s mother banchi, don’t we?”

“I mean, that was the plan,” Char acknowledges. “But we might make a pit-stop at - what, Side 5?” He looks to Hamon, then, despite his earlier complaints.

“Side 5 is more still more sympathetic with Zeon than with Gihren’s lot,” Hamon allows. “That might be a good idea. If you’re willing to act as a figurehead, maybe we can gather support that way.”

“See? There we go. Then we just have to …” Char pauses. “Ah, well. We’ll find a way to topple them, one way or another.” He didn’t _plan_ on destroying the Zabi family, necessarily - they’re awful, sure, but have been ultimately ineffectual aside from leading to the events that had him fake his own death for over a decade. Still - his father’s been in power and they’ve been a dangerous nuisance, nothing more. But they threaten his father’s position, _and_ threaten Side 3’s chances in a war of independence against the Federation. It’s not just that their politics are garbage - they are - but the notion of the colonies being divided up into their own explicit factions will make it harder to find a swift path to victory.

All he has to do is figure out how to unite the colonies against the Earth Federation under his father’s leadership instead of Gihren or Degwin Zabi’s. Without any support from Side 3 or any reliable method of communication with his father, who may not even know what Char’s been up to; he’s been careful in how he engages in politics - because he doesn’t _like_ politics, just wants to fly a mobile suit and do his own thing behind the scenes.

Easy. 

Ramba sighs heavily. “This is going to be a mess, isn’t it?”


	5. Chapter 5

There’s an awful _crunch_ sound and Amuro goes reeling, head slamming back against the pilot’s seat. His helmet cushions the blow somewhat, but he’s still dizzy and off-balance. The Gundam can take quite a beating, he’s learned, but even it has its limits. 

He misses those quiet mornings on Luna II. He whirls the suit around, bringing up the shield just in time to deflect a blow from his attacker’s beam saber. The other suit darts away, lightning quick, and Amuro almost loses sight of it in the void. Not quite, though - a shot from the Gundam’s rifle takes out a chunk of the suit’s backpack, and its caught in a spin for a moment before the pilot adapts.

Amuro’s feeling pretty good about things just then; this combat’s dragged on too long already, and he’s exhausted. Exhausted enough that he doesn’t quite dodge the other mobile suit’s return fire, and once again it’s the superior armor of the Gundam that saves him rather than anything requiring skill.

Being outclassed like this - it’s not like he’s ever been the deciding factor in a battle. It’s not like he’s an experienced pilot, unlike his opponent. But still, he wants to be; he _wants_ to be useful, while at the same time wishing he’d minded his own business and stayed on Side 7. If he had, though, there’s no guarantee things would have stayed quiet. He would have kept his had down, repeating the same routine day after day until one day he’d have been caught off guard hearing that a war had broken out, and maybe the colony would get attacked or maybe he’d get drafted or … There are any number of possibilities. At least this way, he’s _doing_ something. Whether it’s the right thing or not is still in question, but that almost feels less important right now.

Again, he’s letting his thoughts distract him. The rifle fire isn’t quite enough to take out the Gundam, even damaged as it is, but.

There’s a flash of red and then another sharp impact - and the metal of the cockpit shrieks as it strains and then snaps, the momentum of the blow hard enough to breach it. Alarms wail; the controls are nonresponsive.

Amuro sinks back into the pilot’s seat, closing his eyes.

That could have gone better.

-

“You should have run,” Char says, cheerfully, leaning in through the hatch and reaching for Amuro’s hand. He knows Amuro won’t take it - and he doesn’t - but offering entertains him. “That would have been the better tactical decision.”

“You’ve never even flown that stupid suit before,” Amuro grumbles, unbuckling himself and shaking out his limbs. He tugs his helmet off, shrugging it under one arm, then kicks his way out of the cockpit, brushing past Char in the process.

Char follows after him. “You were the one who kept begging to fight me.”

“I wasn’t _begging_.”

Mash - who’s doing god-knows-what to his mobile suit - shouts from across the hangar, “Yes you were!”

“See? Even Mash agrees, and I don’t think you’ve ever even spoken to him.”

“We’ve talked. I’ve asked him to pass me a wrench before at least once.” Amuro starts fussing with the wires connecting their two mobile suits, for reasons Char can’t even begin to fathom. Networking was not what lost that battle for Amuro.

“Ah, so you have a deep bond.” Char beams, then focuses again: “You almost got me, early on; it was a matter of stamina. You got distracted the longer the fight went on.”

“Because usually the Gundam can win faster than that. _I_ can win faster than that.” Amuro unplugs a cable, examining the end and the port it was connected to, and blows on some unseen dust before reconnecting it.

“But you were up against an ace pilot in a prototype suit you’d never faced before,” Char points out, helpfully. “You may be good, but I assure you, you’re not the best.”

Amuro glowers at him, giving up on whatever he was doing with the wires. “Yet.”

“I’ll have to look forward to that _yet_ , then.” The thing is, it really had been close at the start, and Char had worried more than once that he’d end up defeated. Even though he’d considered letting Amuro win, _actually_ losing to the rookie would have been absolutely shameful. “Do you want to try fighting Lalah tomorrow?”

Amuro’s head snaps up, his attention fully focused on Char now. “Lalah’s a pilot? Why didn’t she sortie last time, then? Before we got to Luna II, I mean.”

“Poor planning, mostly,” Char says, laughing self-deprecatingly. “That other ship we were going to transfer to was supposed to be carrying her mobile suit. The fact that we got the prototype Rick Dias at all is nearly a miracle.”

“She could fight next time, though,” Amuro says. He heads for the door back to the rest of the ship, but pauses, looking at the mobile suits. The hangar bay’s crowded, now, with Char’s new suit _and_ the old Zaku still there taking up space. “In your old Zaku.”

“She could, but she won’t.” Char only spares the briefest of glances to the suits, before grabbing a handhold and letting it pull him up the hallway back toward the crew quarters. He calls back to Amuro: “So do you want to fight her or not?”

Amuro doesn’t answer, but Char thinks - maybe - it’s because he’s actually weighing his options. Char can usually guess how Amuro will react to things, but Lalah’s always been a wildcard. Either the challenge and curiosity will spur Amuro on, or - Char doesn’t know quite why he wouldn’t want to, when it’s all a simulation anyway, but. There must be some reason not to. Lalah has never been on a real battlefield, not yet, but she’s an absolute monster in simulations; Char desperately wants to watch the two of them face off. He’ll have to find a way to talk them into it.

“Anyway,” Char says, turning to look over his shoulder; Amuro’s following not too far behind. “Since I won, you know what that means.”

Char’s glad he turned to look, because the expression on Amuro’s face is delightful: a sort of flustered resentment devoid of any _actual_ anger. “I never agreed to that bet.”

Char winks, trusting that Amuro will mark his intent even if the movement’s technically hidden by his sunglasses. He turns to face forward again; they’re nearly at the end of the hall, and he drops to the floor with the satisfying feeling of magnets connecting to the floor again. He doesn’t start walking again until Amuro’s ready, too. “But you didn’t disagree.”

Rather than follow behind him, Amuro makes sure to walk by his side, head held high. “How are we even supposed to go on a date when we’re on a spaceship? You can’t collect. It’s meaningless.”

“I’ll find a way, just you wait.” Char taps the side of his head. “I can be patient, you’ll see. Maybe the date will be a sneak attack - one day, you’ll be going about your business, and before you know it …”

“Stupid,” Amuro mutters, but he’s smiling, so Char counts it as a win.

Poor Ortega, headed the opposite direction, does not seem to appreciate bearing witness to this conversation.“Uuugh. Don’t be gross.”

“It’s not gross!” Amuro says. Then: “Char’s the gross one here, not me, that’s what I mean.”

Ortega scoffs. “Well, can’t argue that part, at least.”

-

Somehow, despite everything, Char actually leaves Amuro alone when Amuro goes to get a snack post-training. He doesn’t even know where Char goes, not that there are many options. He’s probably up on the bridge. 

Ramba Ral comes in not long after Amuro, sitting down across from him and tossing him an apple. “Hey, rookie.”

Amuro takes a bite of the apple to put off having to come up with an answer.

“Listen, Char’s not a bad guy, but he’s no teacher,” Ramba says. “Neither am I, but I have more experience, at least.”

“Okay.” Amuro takes another bite. The excuse isn’t going to last long, at this rate.

Ramba laughs at him. “Trying to avoid talking to me? That’s fine. I just think you deserve better training than whatever his idea of fun is. Since you’re both so dead set on you becoming a soldier, you deserve some training advice from a real one.”

“You’re a soldier?”

Another laugh. “What did you think? _Did_ you think, boy?”

Amuro’s trying to come up with a retort, feeling his face curl into a scowl, when an alarm starts blaring.

“Ah, really?” Ramba groans, leaning back and looking at the flashing light on the wall as if it will offer insight.

A moment later, Hamon’s voice comes over the speakers: “Pilots, to your stations. Lieutenant Ral, come to the bridge. We’ve got a Federation vessel after us.”

Amuro, before thinking it through, asks, “Pilots includes me, right?”

“That’s up to you,” Ramba tells him, not looking at him; he’s already halfway out of the room on his way to the bridge.

Amuro rubs at his eyes. No one would blame him if he didn’t go, but he’d blame himself. So.

-

Things _start_ well. The Federation vessel following them is an odd one - a big white monstrosity that looks sort of like a toy horse, it sticks out against the void of space like a sore thumb. Losing track of it’s almost impossible.

Amuro notices early on that no one’s willing to go all-out in attacking the Gundam. They must still want to get it back intact, even now. That makes it easier, in a way. It doesn’t hit him until well after his first victory that he just killed someone, but there’s no time to dwell because another mobile suit’s after him and he doesn’t want to die. He knows full well you can disable a mobile suit by taking out the cockpit alone. No pilot, no movement. Which is scary in its own way; he wonders how old the other pilots are, how much experience they have, if they woke up this morning knowing they were going to be risking death or if they thought this would be simple -

The radio’s been quiet for most of the fight, but then someone’s absolutely howling, “Mash!” and Amuro can’t let _that_ distract him, either; Gaia and Ortega keep up a steady stream of chatter after that, mostly yelling about how they’re going to kill every last one of those Feddie scum for getting Mash.

Amuro tries very, very hard to stay focused. Char told him, earlier, that he gets distracted. He needs to work on it. Sue him for thinking he’d have more time to put in that work, but maybe being forced to learn when his life’s on the line …

For a little while, Amuro thinks they’re going to win. He really does. He’s taken out more than one mobile suit himself, torn between pride and disgust at that fact. Even with Mash … gone - Ortega and Gaia are performing admirably, and Char’s impressive as ever, but that big white ship looming off to the Zanzibar’s starboard spooks him a little, and he’s only gotten in the one kill himself, and then he sees it: a second Gundam.

He knew, in theory, that there were spare parts at the facility where his father works; he’s aware that his father’s wanted to test the Gundam for ages. There _wasn’t_ a second when he left, he doesn’t think, but there were parts enough to build another, and it’s been a little over a week now - so of course. Another Gundam. Why not. Thankfully the odds of another getting built soon are low. His father kept complaining about supply shortages over dinner without explaining what he meant, and the Gundam’s made of special material; this second machine’s probably all they can muster off those particular plans for now.

Amuro feels a strange, awful pressure in his skull when he looks at it. Like a weight pressing down on him, keeping him from reacting as fast as he should, because he’s trying to figure something out.

He and the other Gundam are too closely matched. They clash and clash, and the Federation ship is firing on the Zanzibar, and they’ve launched some sort of sniper, too, who’s taking potshots at Amuro despite the proximity of that second Gundam

There’s just something about the other mobile suit, besides that it’s an unpainted mirror of his own. The other pilot is so calm, every movement methodical. Maybe a little too methodical: they’re a match for Amuro, but he doesn’t think they’re any more familiar with their mobile suit than he is. Lucky, that they’ve somehow sent a rookie to fight a rookie. But he thinks - he thinks they’re looking for someone, maybe, but it’s not him. Whatever they’re after, they’re on the wrong track. He knows them, though, he knows he does, and if he could just …

For a moment, the both of them hover there, and Amuro thinks he’s on the verge of something - either figuring it out, or buckling under the strange weight, the ringing in his ears.

“Amuro!” Char barks over the radio. “Stop staring and move.”

Amuro shakes his head, and everything is clear again, the clarity as quick as the strike of a match, doubt burned away by the weight of Char’s voice.

(Still - familiar as Char is, there’s something, _something_ about this other pilot —)

The Minovsky particles make the transmission from the _Zanzibar_ a little staticky, but Amuro can still hear the order: “All pilots, fall back.”

Amuro can’t see why, though. “What are we doing?”

“Who knows,” Ortega grouses. “Fuck this, though, I’m going to -“

“Shut up, shut up!” Gaia has no time for it. “Just follow orders and shut up.”

Amuro should care more. He didn’t really know Mash, but the three pilots were all clearly good friends, and Mash is gone; he’s never going to nearly run into Amuro in the hall or refuse to give him a set of pliers that he’s still using ever again.

Earth looms ever-closer; Amuro means to stick close to the _Zanzibar_ , but the other Gundam isn’t giving up, so neither will he. Ramba and Hamon both yell at him once or twice, but he ignores them, right up until they hit the very outer edge of Earth’s atmosphere.

The other Gundam seems to realize the danger, and breaks away. Amuro tries to waylay them, but they’re intent on escape, and it’s getting harder to maneuver with the drag of atmosphere and gravity both hindering their movements.

A bead of sweat drips down his forehead into his eye, and Amuro blinks rapidly. The cockpit’s hot. He needs to get back to the _Zanzibar_. But pursuit is so tempting; if the other Gundam isn’t going to fight back, maybe he can take it out. Supposedly the Gundam can handle reentry on its own, and he can get back with the ship after winning.

If he doesn’t win, though. If he doesn’t. Mash already died, and if Amuro dies too - he’s not ready for that yet. He’s maybe too much of a coward, and he berates himself even as he breaks off his pursuit and returns to the ship.

So be it; he gets back just in time. Better than trying to survive reentry alone.

He stays in the cockpit through the whole process, though he takes off his helmet so he can wipe the sweat from his brow. Being inside the Gundam right now feels like being in a sauna.

When he finally does get out, he very nearly makes a stupid mistake - he’s about to jump from the cockpit, when he remembers gravity. He’s so high up. He rubs at his eyes, peering out at the hangar. It’s strange to be in here alone, trying to figure out how to get down.

He clambers down to ground level, climbing down the scaffolding. The gravity’s heavier than even on the colonies, exerting its own sort of pressure on him. Somehow, his first thought is to go check on Char - not to see if anyone else is okay, not to start in on repair work on the Gundam, but to make sure that asshole hasn’t gone on some sort of existential bender thinking too hard about gravity.

On the way out, Amuro nearly trips over his own feet more than once, trying to push himself further than Earth’s gravity allows a single step to go.

The engine’s making a weird rattling noise that bothers Amuro as he walks through the ship. They’ll have to land somewhere sooner or later to take a look at it, and it’ll be a while until it cools down enough to allow even that. Already, Amuro’s wondering if they’ll go to a city or if they’ll try to hide out somewhere in the wilderness. With their unplanned reentry, he has absolutely no idea where they’ve come down or how near anything is. Earth’s geography is already a foreign subject, and he can’t begin to guess with how little information he has.

Everyone’s on the bridge, Ramba and Char and Hamon all deep in discussion over future plans. Ortega’s taken over piloting from whoever was doing it before, while Gaia’s sitting lookout and drinking from a flask instead of helping fly or navigate at all. There are other crew members making themselves busy, but none of them are anyone Amuro’s bothered to get to know. He doesn’t spend much time on the bridge.

Lalah looks up when Amuro walks on the bridge. “I’m glad you came back.”

“Oh, I - yeah. What else would I have done?” He rubs the back of his head, laughing awkwardly. He hopes she wasn’t watching the fight. It’s not that he did badly, exactly, just let hesitation get the better of him and didn’t prove as useful as he wanted to. (Not that he was _useless_ , either; he took out multiple enemy targets. Multiple people. He and that other Gundam were the last two pilots on the field of battle, well after they both should have disengaged; not even Char had dared to keep flying that close to reentry, and he’s the better pilot. Amuro just thinks he should have done more.)

Lalah doesn’t look like she buys it, but she doesn’t say anything, either. 

“That other pilot.” Amuro pauses, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth. “I knew her from somewhere.”

“Did you?” Lalah doesn’t seem surprised, just interested. “Who was it?”

Amuro shakes his head. “I don’t know. I - wait, why do you even believe me? Never mind.”

“If you insist.”

Amuro makes his way across the bridge, sneaking in next to Char to look at the screen he’s looking at. It takes Amuro a moment to recognize it as a map, presumably of the part of Earth they’re on. If the blue parts are water, then the rest is land; the key at the bottom for scale takes far too long to fully register. Earth is _huge_. Amuro knew this, in an academic sense. But when he lived on it as a child, he never left his home town, and then it was a blue circle receding out the window of a shuttle, and he hasn’t given it as much thought since then as he really should have. Just the square they’re looking at shows hundreds upon hundreds of kilometers of land and water, dotted with markings for cities and roads and rivers.

He doesn’t pay any attention to the ongoing conversation at all - though he does startle for a moment when Char settles an arm around his shoulder. Part of him is relieved, that Char isn’t - he doesn’t know. Isn’t ignoring him, maybe. Mostly he’s still fascinated by the map.

“Ready for a little vacation?” Char asks, lowering his voice in a way that somehow makes Amuro pay _more_ attention to the sound.

“Where are we going?”

Ramba interrupts: “Were you paying any attention at all, boy?”

Amuro blinks up at him. “Should I have been?”

Ramba doesn’t seem to know what to do with that answer, but Hamon starts laughing, so he does too.

“I mean it,” Amuro grumbles, feeling his cheeks flush. “It’s not like it’s up to me either way, is it? I don’t know what’s best here. We need to repair the ship’s engines, and I have no idea if we’ve got enough supplies onboard to do that alone or if we need to find a sympathetic city or what.”

That just makes Ramba laugh even harder.

“You’re sure you weren’t paying attention?” Hamon asks, absolutely delighted.

“I already told you! Why should I bother?”

“Amuro …” Char trails off, lifting his hand from Amuro’s shoulder so he can knock him lightly on the side of the head. Somehow his expression manages to look at once fond _and_ extremely smug.

 _That’s_ enough to dislodge Amuro from Char’s side, and he heads off the bridge. There really isn’t any reason for him to be up here crowding the place when he has nothing to contribute. They can get back to him when they need a pilot.

“We’re going to New York City,” Char calls after him. “We’ll be there in an hour, so clean up and get dressed.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a nice time in new yark :)
> 
> thank you gina for looking over this chapter and providing a lil advice!

Even though Amuro’s been to Earth before, nothing in his childhood prepared him for New Yark - it’s huge and loud and crowded, and he keeps thinking someone’s going to catch on to them, somehow, as if anyone knows who the crew of the _Zanzibar_ are.

One of the big screens in Times Square does show a low-quality ID picture and some security footage of Char, once, with the name Quattro, but Char’s wearing a hat and a new pair of sunglasses and Amuro is realizing that most people just don’t pay that much attention. Not like Amuro usually does, either, to be fair; Char’s a special case. But no one recognizes him, is the point, and they get a hotel and dinner with no trouble at all somehow even though Char’s a wanted criminal now. (Technically Amuro is, too, except the only mention of his name he can find is a sentence or two saying he was on the scene at the time and has gone missing since. No accusations of guilt or any real focus on his involvement at all, somehow.)

The _Zanzibar_ ’s hidden in New Jersey, at a little airport where a few other ships of the same class are parked. The first thing they did on landing was to bribe an official for fake paperwork and a clean transceiver to give it a new ID - it is temporarily the _New Brunswick_ , not that Amuro’s ever going to call it that - and the hope is, apparently, that no one will figure out who they are when they leave Earth again.

Amuro has his doubts about this plan, but he can’t think of anything better.

The engine work takes longer than the fake paperwork. As a final step in the plan, the _Zanzibar_ is also getting a new paintjob. That one had been Amuro’s suggestion, actually, and it’s the one time anyone listened to him. Hopefully that, combined with the new registration, will keep their trail clear when they’re finally ready to go to Side 5.

At this point, it’s a waiting game. There are a few more details of the plan that need to be taken care of, probably more people to be bribed, and - he’s sure Hamon and Ramba are doing more, he just doesn’t know what. The paint job needs to finish and then dry and then be coated to protect it from the burn of launch. 

None of this gives Amuro anything to do to make himself useful. Char is apparently content to aimlessly rove the city, so Amuro’s just going along with that. Better to keep track of where Char is and make sure he doesn’t vanish somewhere, than hang around the ship being useless.

“This doesn’t count as our date, by the way,” Char says over his shoulder, even as he’s paying for their tickets to a play that night.

“I’d hope not.” Amuro makes a face. “What is this play even about?”

Char is all too gleeful to announce his absolute lack of knowledge: “I have no idea!”

“Then why …”

“Maybe I just wanted to get you alone in the dark?” Char waggles his eyebrows, dragging Amuro away from the ticket window and pocketing their tickets for later. 

“There’s way easier ways to do that, you know.”

“Really?”

Amuro reconsiders. “No.”

“Just as I thought.” Char laughs, just like he always does. Despite himself, Amuro likes the sound of it, even if it’s a little bit at his expense. “Anyway, it’s Broadway; it’s one of the great cultural experiences of Earth. I want to see if it’s worthwhile.”

Amuro rolls his eyes. “Probably not, since all the actors are weighed down by gravity.”

“Ah, trying to turn my own words against me. You wound me, Amuro.”

“Well, if you’re injured, we can find a doctor.”

Char just grins, then goes tearing off across the street like he’s on a mission; Amuro’s left with little choice but to dart after him, pushing through the press of people in pursuit. This is the thing about New Yark City: it’s _crowded_ , always and everywhere. There are people and buses and bicycles everywhere, and Amuro really, really hopes that at least some parts of the city are quieter. But there are millions of people here, in a smaller, more population-dense space than Amuro’s ever been in before, and it’s a little overwhelming. Once it was completed, Side 7’s population had gradually increased, but it’s nothing like this. And this is Earth _after_ so much of the population was forced out into the stars. His hometown hadn’t been like this, nor any of the nearby cities; he wonder if it’s that Earth has gotten worse in the intervening decade-or-so, or if it’s just New York.

He nearly loses sight of Char, separated briefly in the mass of people. When he catches up, he reaches out for Char’s hand, taking it quickly and refusing to meet Char’s eyes when Char looks at him funny for it. Amuro could, he thinks, find Char even in a crowd of thousands. He doesn’t _need_ to hold on, but - “I don’t want to lose you. In the crowd.”

“Smart,” Char says, and tangles their fingers together.

-

They get dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall Italian place that Amuro is not immediately convinced is a restaurant. The door they enter through leads into a narrow little hallway with a waiter’s stand and no sign of any tables, but they get led downstairs into a decent-sized dining room. The walls are painted with murals meant to look like some other Earth city. Amuro assumes the place depicted must be in Italy. There are narrow canals of water with little bridges over them and boats being piloted by striped-shirt men who all look the same.

Char seems just as fascinated by everything as Amuro, if not more so; he’s gratified by that much at least.

Amuro rests his chin on his hand. He knows asking Char questions is only ever half-useful, because Char’s so prone to misdirection, but even so, he’s curious, and hopes maybe for once he’ll get a simple answer. “So what do you make of Earth?”

“It’s strange.” Char shakes his head. “I’m enjoying myself, but …”

Amuro knew better than to hope for anything straightforward. From the moment they met, Char’s been lying about one thing or another. It’s those rare moments Amuro gets the truth out of him, that he unearths something real and honest inside of Char Aznable - whatever his name may be - that keep him from giving up entirely. He could, if he wanted, get up right now. Leave the restaurant, fuck off on his own. Call his dad, get money for a shuttle back to Side 7, find a new job. He could be at an internship at Anaheim within a few months, right at the start of the next semester. Easy as that. Part of him’s tempted to bolt, to hide away and keep safe, but - if war comes, there’s no guarantee a colony with a huge secret military base on it would be particularly safe. If the choice is between hiding and maybe ending up dead or maybe being safe, and fighting to stay alive - he thinks fighting on his own terms, determining his own fate, is what he’s going with. For now. Even if it’s terrifying. At least Earth, in this moment, is quiet; they’re biding their time in a different way, but the risk of combat here feels low. Amuro scrapes his teeth against his palm, trying to make himself focus on the present moment again instead of losing himself in thought. “But?”

“Everywhere you look, there are more … just _more_. It’s all so extravagant, isn’t it. Even compared to Zum City, or Side 6’s mother banchi, there’s just no comparison. I thought I grew up lavishly, but - well. Look where we are.” Leaning one elbow on the table, Char rests his chin on his hand, too, mirroring Amuro’s own pose. He tilts his head to the side briefly, gesturing toward the rest of the restaurant. “I could go on, but you know what I would say anyway.”

“Something about how the people here get to enjoy all this, while the rest of us up in the colonies are an afterthought, right?” Amuro shrugs. He thinks Char’s being sincere, this time, thankfully. A little didactic, but that’s easier to tolerate. “Which, sure, but it’s not their fault, really.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well.” That makes Amuro pause for a moment, thinking further. “It is and it isn’t. We’re sort of … I forget about this place, sometimes. It’s no wonder they forget about us, too. When people are so far apart, when we have so little to do with each other, it’s hard to remember that … I just don’t think they think about the colonies at all. It’s not malicious, really, but it’s still … They don’t really worry about us, even though we have no choice but to worry about them since they’re in charge.”

“Exactly,” Char says. He looks like he wants to say more, but then the waiter comes back with their meals, and he allows that to derail whatever thought he had.

It’s probably the best meal Amuro’s had in his life - hearty and fresh and filling, and still half the price of the next-fanciest meal he ever had on Side 7. Somehow, delicious as it is, the richness of it turns his stomach, and he picks at his meal reluctantly.

Somehow Char has no such compunctions, eating as quickly and efficiently as ever. He’s very purposeful about dinner - same as any time Amuro’s seen him eat, actually, like he’s fulfilling a very boring obligation so he can move on to the next thing. He doesn’t seem to enjoy it at all. The realization hits Amuro, then, that he’s the same way. The number of times Fraw Bow reminded him to eat is almost shameful, and at work, he would sometimes skip his lunch break in favor of heading home fifteen minutes early; technically a violation of labor laws, but Bright let him do it anyway. Amuro wants to resent Char for eating that way, but - they’re the same. Amuro resents him anyway. 

Halfway through dinner, they’re talking about utterly inconsequential things for once. Like they’re just - normal people eating dinner together. Like anyone else in the restaurant. They both like this one obscure musician from Side 2, and manage to carry on an entire conversation that doesn’t revolve around weird gravity metaphors or war or what it means to fight. Just - whether or not they like a certain song, if the chorus on the third track is catchy - it is - and things like that. Amuro kind of likes it, honestly.

Even though Amuro knows - obviously! - that everyone here’s a person, that they’re all just people, it hits him, suddenly, that all of them made a series of choices that led them to this little basement dining room, and there’s no way for him to know how they got here, and no way for them to know anything about him, either. Not one of these people knows that, just a few days ago, he killed multiple people. But then - any of them could have done the same. Maybe not in a mobile suit, but. Who knows.

And just as he’s thinking that he _still_ doesn’t know anything about Char (or Edouard, or Quattro, or —), Char is trying to illustrate some point or another that Amuro hasn’t been paying attention to, gesturing broadly and saying, “In any case, what I mean is …”

Char, apparently forgetting entirely about all his grand metaphors, lets go of his cup mid-gesture, and it crashes to the floor and breaks, and he looks _so_ startled, and for a split second Amuro tries to suppress his laughter but Char’s dismay even behind the stupid sunglasses he’s still wearing after all this time is enough that Amuro really can’t help himself, and maybe Char deserves to be laughed at, anyway; he laughs at others plenty but takes himself too seriously sometimes.

“Earth’s gravity, huh,” Amuro manages, and Char scowls at him and then manages to crack a smile that’s maybe the least guarded expression Amuro’s ever seen on him.

A waiter hurries over to help clean up, and Char starts to apologize, but Amuro says, “Don’t mind him, he’s from space,” and starts laughing again.

“I feel like I should make some sort of point because of this,” Char starts, shaking his head. He gets out of his seat, crouching down to help the waiter - even though the waiter has a little broom and dustpan, and Char just has his bare hands, Char still tries to help pick up a few of the bigger pieces of glass.

“Sir, you don’t need to help,” the waiter says with a strained smile. “Please just sit down. It’s fine.”

“You’re going to get cut, you know,” Amuro points out helpfully. It’s not one of those weird feelings he gets; he just knows because he’s done the same sort of thing. He has a vague memory of his mother saying the same thing to him once as a very small child, not long before he left Earth. It really is odd being back.

“Am not,” Char says, and promptly does, giving himself a big gash right down the middle of his palm.

The waiter sighs deeply, running a hand roughly through their hair. They quickly finish sweeping the last of the glass, then rise again. “I’ll get a bandage.”

Amuro gets his napkin and gets out of his own seat, reaching for Char’s hand so he can wrap the cloth around the cut - which is bleeding a _lot_ , it turns out - and applies pressure.

“Ah, now you’re ruining their linens,” Char says, clicking his tongue. 

“Which wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d just let them handle it.” Amuro rolls his eyes. “Listen, a dirty napkin’s easier to deal with than a permanently stained floor. If you really feel that bad about it, let them add the price of a napkin to the bill.”

“It’s tile, it doesn’t stain.”

“Tile can stain,” Amuro says, needlessly argumentative, then finally lets go. “You can stain anything if you try hard enough. Listen, keep applying pressure to it.”

“Well, thank you.”

Amuro nods, and looks away. “Sure, of course. What, did you think I’d just ignore it if you got hurt?”

“Of course not.”

-

Somehow, Char lets Amuro convince him to go to an urgent-care clinic to get his hand looked at. The fact that he’s had to keep holding it shut and the amount of blood involved means there’s not much argument, but still - sitting around in the waiting room, watching the clock tick forward, he’s acutely aware of the fact that he paid good money for tickets to a play they’re missing.

He ends up with four stitches and an admonishment not to go picking up glass, which - yes. He could have figured that one out on his own.

“At least we’re on Earth,” Amuro says as they’re leaving. “So you don’t have to fight anytime soon. Hopefully you’ll be better by the time we leave.”

“If not, there’s always Lalah.” Char’s still holding onto his injured hand, even now that it’s got stitches and is properly bandaged. They gave him some painkillers, too, but he won’t take them for now. Instead he just applies pressure to the wound even though it doesn’t need it and starts on the way back to the hotel. “Even Ramba knows how to pilot a mobile suit, though I don’t know if I want him in my new one.”

“That prototype suit …? Why not?”

Char shrugs. “It’s not really built for a person like him.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Ramba’s an experienced pilot,” Char says, carefully. “He’s - as long as mobile suits have existed, he’s been piloting them. I think he could handle just about anything meant for a regular pilot.”

“Oh, so you’re special, are you.”

Char shrugs. “Maybe so, maybe not. I could be just like anyone else. I just have requirements for my mobile suits that most people don’t like. And this one’s - well, if I’m not able to pilot by the time we get back in space, if we end up attacked again - we’ll see if Lalah’s better suited to it than I am.”

Amuro seems more bemused than anything. “You really like being mysterious, don’t you?”

“When did you figure that out?”

“Fuck off,” Amuro responds, with no hostility in his voice. “You know, sometimes it works better if you’re just straightforward about your intentions.”

“What does?”

“It - you know. Everything. Relating to people. Getting people on your side.”

“I’ve got you on my side already, don’t I?”

Amuro scoffs. “Oh, never mind. It’s not worth it right now.”

“If you say so.”

By now, the play must be halfway over; the waiting room ate up an excruciating amount of time. Char checks his watch, then turns down another street.

Amuro, once again surpassing expectations, is apparently keeping track of where Char is leading. “Are we not going to the play? I know it’s already started, but …”

“Why, did you want to?”

“Not really,” Amuro admits, guilelessly. “I haven’t seen a play since middle school, but they’re not really my thing.”

“So it’s fine if we miss it.”

The streets they find themselves on walking back to the hotel are a little less busy. It’s night, but the streetlights keep things bright; the sky up above is a dull orange sort of color, not truly dark, thanks to the way light reflects off of the atmosphere. Supposedly, the sky is darker here now than it was in the decades before the beginning of the Universal Century. Supposedly, the air is cleaner. Char knows this, intellectually, but has trouble believing it’s not propaganda to excuse the condition the planet is in. He says none of this.

He’s lost in thought when an unfamiliar voice calls his name, and he jerks his head up, looking around. No one here should know him, he doesn’t think, and then a man about his age appears out of nowhere and latches onto him in a tight hug. “Char!!”

Char looks at Amuro, who shrugs.

“Hi there?” Char says, hoping he’s not about to be assassinated. That would be terrible timing, after everything.

The other man puts his hands on Char’s shoulders, backing away enough so Char can get a good look. He seems absolutely overjoyed - “It’s been so long! I had no idea you were back. I didn’t think they’d _let_ you come back. You look well. Do you have a place to stay? You should have said if you were coming! Ah, unless, are you alright? Or was it a surprise? Sorry if I ruined the surprise, but - it’s surprising enough, running into you on the street!”

Char wracks his brain. The other man’s dressed fashionably, with his purple hair pulled back in a jaunty little ponytail, and _then_ it hits Char who he’s looking at. They haven’t seen each other since they were children, when he was using a completely different name, which makes this whole reaction entirely incomprehensible, but he’s seen enough pictures in the news since then to recognize him even if it takes a while - “Garma, right? Ah, good to see you, too?”

“What, did you forget me already?” Garma asks, laughing, and then - and then! - he kisses Char on the cheek.

“Of course not,” Char says, smiling wide and faux-earnest with absolutely no idea what’s going on. “How could I?”

Garma seems inordinately fond for someone who Char met maybe three times when he was a child. “Really, though, are you alright? After you got stationed out in the asteroid belt, I thought … I didn’t think we’d ever see each other again.”

This is the trouble with this particular fake name. It belongs to someone else. Char had wanted to off the other Char so nothing like this would happen, but he’d allowed himself to be talked into having the other man exiled instead; the real Char’s going by Edouard now, off on a mining asteroid ‘till the end of time, but. He’s a real person. A real person with friends. And apparently one of those friends is Garma Zabi.

“How about that mess on Side 3?” Char asks, with no preamble. “Is your family alright?”

Garma makes a face. “Oh, don’t be mean.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Char holds his hands up, taking a half step back so he can get out from under Garma’s hold on him, too. A shot in the dark - “You’re trying to make a name for yourself on your own, I know. That doesn’t mean you can’t still worry about them.”

“I mean, I do, but this is - they’ve brought it on themselves, whatever happens. Honestly, I’m more worried what happens if they succeed.” Garma sighs deeply. “So do you want to - ah, I’m sorry, who’s this? I’ve been so rude. I’m Garma; nice to meet you.”

Amuro, looking deeply suspicious, shakes Garma’s hand. “Amuro. Who are you?”

Garma chews at his lip for a moment, and fusses with his bangs. “I just said? I’m Garma. What else do you need to know? If it’s about my family, don’t worry about it.” 

“I mean …” Amuro trails off, seeming to reconsider whatever question he was about to ask.

“So, Amuro! It’s nice to meet you, Amuro.” Even though Garma seems nervous, he’s powering through it. “So you’re a friend of Char’s!”

“You could say that.”

“Are you from the asteroid too, or -"

“No, I’m from Earth,” Amuro says, which is true, and also not an actual answer. No one’s _from_ a mining asteroid. Char’s sort of proud, really. It’s not that Amuro’s lying, exactly, he’s just - being a little misleading in a way that’s still honest, and there’s something very charming about it. Usually Amuro is the honest type, from what Char’s seen. Maybe he’s learning. (Maybe Char’s a bad influence.) “Char’s helping me with an engineering project.”

“Engineering, huh?” Garma’s eyebrows go up. “That used to be your worst subject. What even happened out there in space? Is it … did they, you know?” He lifts a hand to the side of his head, spreading his fingers and waggling his hand back and forth.

Char doesn’t even attempt to guess what that gesture could imply, breezing past the question entirely. “Amuro’s the one with the skills in engineering. I’m just useful as a mechanic.”

“Hmm.” Garma considers the two of them for a moment, then puts his hands on his hips, looking determined. “Well! I don’t know what your plans are for the night, but - if you needed a place to stay, Char, you can always come back to mine. You’re fine, right, Amuro? Since you’re from here?”

Amuro’s eyes narrow. “I said I was from Earth, not New Yark.”

Garma gives him a strained smile. “But you must have somewhere to go.”

“I do. So does Char.” Amuro draws himself up to his full height, which, given that he’s shorter than both Char _and_ Garma, is not particularly impressive. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

“Ah.” Garma’s confidence seems to shatter, right then. “Well, it has been a while. It’s … You still have my number, right?”

“Actually, I don’t have anyone’s.” Char shrugs apologetically. “I didn’t think I’d get to come back either, so it didn’t seem useful to hold onto them.”

“So unsentimental,” Garma sighs. “Being that far out has changed you, huh. I guess if …” He pauses, looking at Amuro, then seems to reconsider whatever he was about to say. “Well, as long as you’re alright. Here, let me see your phone?”

“I don’t have a new one yet. I only just got back.”

“But you’re already working on an engineering project with someone from here.”

Char shrugs.

Amuro, who looks torn between murder and making fun of Char, says, “Here, we can trade numbers, anyway; I can reach him for you if you need.”

“Didn’t you … just meet.” Garma looks utterly lost, and that, at least, makes Char slightly more forgiving of Amuro’s completely insane offer. The fact that he’s _not the same Char_ makes this entire encounter absurdly dangerous. Even though Char’s a good liar, it’s hard to come up with a good reason for not remembering anything about an apparently-important friendship the real Char had. Has. He _knew_ he should have killed the other Char when he had a chance. Not that it would have helped here, actually, since this friendship predates the other Char’s exile, but - whatever. He should have anyway. Or he should have pretended, just now, to be someone other than Char. He could have pulled that off - taken off his sunglasses, proved he had blue eyes, that he just so happened to look almost identical to the other man who’s currently off doing god-knows-what out in the asteroid belt or near Jupiter or wherever he is now. Amuro would have gone along with that, too, he’s sure.

“Being from Earth doesn’t mean I’ve never been off planet.” For some unfathomable reason, Amuro seems irritated at Garma. Maybe he’s jealous, which is absurd. The Char that Amuro’s entangled himself with is a totally different Char than the one Garma’s mistaken him for. Then again, probably Amuro thinks they _do_ know each other, since he was recognized so easily, and suddenly Char understands a lot more than he did a moment ago.

“So you …” Garma pauses. “Were you also stationed on the asteroid?”

Amuro shrugs, looking extremely cagey and uncertain. He’s not a good liar, and even when he’s not lying - just not offering proper answers - he manages to look profoundly uncomfortable. Char is _delighted_. Something about Amuro trying to go along with this with absolutely no context is exceedingly charming. Char is less delighted when Amuro follows through on the offer to exchange numbers with Garma, but even so.

“He was,” Char finally offers, taking the pressure off of Amuro, who’s busy putting his number into Garma’s phone.

Garma looks around, and finally, lowering his voice, asks, “Are they experimenting on people from Earth, now, too? I thought it was just spacenoids.”

Char can’t even begin to guess what answer will work best. He just shrugs, looking away. He’s been caught totally off guard, but he doesn’t want Amuro to know that. Probably it’s more important that Garma doesn’t know, but even so.

“Well, even if you won’t tell me …” Garma pauses, looking down. “Whatever happened out there - if you don’t really remember me, if they’ve … whatever happened, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Char says, only managing to sound unsurprised because he’s got years of practice hiding anything like feelings he might have. The knowledge that there’s human experimentation out in the asteroid belt, that it’s primarily on spacenoids - somehow, Char hasn’t heard a word of it yet. And judging by Garma’s reaction, it’s not particularly humane experimentation, either. Maybe killing the other Char really _would_ have been the best route. “That means a lot.”

“Char …”

The choice Char makes next is, potentially, a tactical error. Amuro’s _right_ there, but then - making Amuro jealous isn’t necessarily a bad call. And it’s a nice warning that Char is willing to lie to anyone, about anything, and take whatever advantages are offered him without much regard for others. It’s a little selfish of him, but - even though he’s been trying to win Amuro over, he doesn’t want Amuro to think he’s a good person. He can pretend to be, but he’s not, and Amuro deserves to know that. So: “Thank you,” Char repeats, touching the side of Garma’s face, tilting his chin up a little. He brushes their lips together. “Garma.”

“Ah.” Garma looks at once heartbroken and hopeless. He steps back, wiping a hand across his eyes. “As long as you’re okay, I’m glad. That’s what matters.”


	7. Chapter 7

The two of them stand on opposite sides of the elevator, silent for the first few floors. Amuro looks up at the ceiling, at the two of them reflected in the mirror up above, at the marble floor. Leaning back, the railing is cool and smooth under his hands.

Char taps his foot, watching the numbers count upward. They have a ways to go yet, and the elevator isn’t especially fast. The building was built only a few years after the calendar shift but everything about the interior is styled to look much older, a throwback to a bygone era.

“Hey.” Amuro doesn’t wait for Char to acknowledge him, just goes on - “You know how you keep telling me that - that I’m here because I want to be. That you’re not making me do anything. You know the same thing goes for you, right?”

“Sometimes,” Char says, tilting his head back. He could have his eyes closed, for all Amuro knows. “Sometimes - there are points where you don’t have a choice anymore, or not for a while, when enough things are already in motion -“

“That’s not what I mean, though,” Amuro says. He flexes his fingers against the railing. There’s an ad for the hotel restaurant on the wall, and he reads it in the mirror, unintentionally distracting himself for a moment. Then he shakes his head, pushing off from the wall and rounding on Char, stepping in very close. “You’re the worst, you know? But that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I just think - no, I don’t know,” Amuro says. “I don’t know. You think you’re so awful that you can’t help but act like you are, but you don’t have to do that. You’re just making excuses for yourself. Trying to live up to a reputation you invented inside your own head.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Char agrees, just barely touching Amuro’s arm, leaning in close. His breath is warm against Amuro’s face. It’s so, so obvious he’s trying to be distracting, and the worst part is that it’s working. Amuro swallows, eyes darting between Char’s mouth and his own reflection in those stupid fucking sunglasses.

Amuro thinks, _fuck it_ , and makes a move to grab those obnoxious sunglasses, finally fed up with never getting a real look at Char after weeks on end. It was annoying enough when Char was just the worst customer in the history of customers, but now, when they’re - whatever it is they’re doing now -

With a ding, the elevator doors open, and Char pushes past Amuro to get out before Amuro can do anything.

“It’s not our floor yet,” Amuro points out, feeling very tired. He turns to look over his shoulder. There’s just another person waiting to get on.

Char hesitates, and Amuro grabs him, drags him back in with a sigh. “Sorry, sorry.” He waves his free hand at the other person. “Come on in. He’s not paying attention, don’t mind him.”

“Thanks?” the erstwhile elevator rider says, slinking as far into the opposite corner from them as possible.

Amuro keeps Char close, resting his head against Char’s shoulder from behind. “Why the rush?”

“Amuro -“

“Oh, here, this time it’s actually our floor.” The elevator dings again. The doors slide open, but Amuro doesn’t move, at first. Char was in such a rush last time, Amuro sort of wants to see what he’ll do this time. Apparently he’s willing to wait it out, and they both nearly miss their floor entirely. The other passenger is staring resolutely ahead at the wall. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” Amuro finally says, laughing, trying to walk while still holding onto Char, and it turns into an awkward shuffle as they both try not to trip.

At least it’s not far down the hall to the room.

They get to the room and Char unlocks the door, and that’s about as long as Amuro’s willing to wait before pushing him up against a wall, a hand halfway under his shirt already as he drags Char into a kiss. He feels - like he’s on the verge of figuring something out about Char, teetering on the edge of some greater understanding. For just a moment, Char seems softer, somehow, in some undefinable way.

Except the fucking TV is on, and Lalah’s sitting there cross-legged on one of the two twin beds. She’s not _watching_ the TV, of course, is instead staring directly at them, tablet in hand. It’s only once Amuro notices her that he hears the faux-shutter sound of a camera app.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Lalah says, laughing, as Amuro jumps back from Char like he’s been burned.

All Amuro can manage is a pained, “Ugh.” He rubs his hands over his face, and Char laughs at him, because why wouldn’t he. “I didn’t realize -“

“You’re not living up to your potential, Amuro, I’m disappointed.” Char looks _so_ smug.

“What are you even talking about?”

“He’s being mean for no reason,” Lalah explains. She does not sound remotely bothered by this. Amuro sighs heavily, and ducks into the bathroom to wash his face, just to avoid the two of them if only for a moment. “You really didn’t know I was here?”

“No?” If he’d thought about it he probably could have guessed, but he was more than a little distracted by Char. Still is, if he’s honest. “Wait, wait, did you - never mind, give me that!”

And he dives for the bed, trying to grab the tablet from Lalah, because it’s just now hitting him that she took a picture, which is _also_ mean for no reason. Of course, it’s his turn, this time, to be waylaid by the Earth itself; his leap falls short, and he ends up on the floor instead of anywhere near the bed, because he overestimated his ability to jump in full gravity. Even just inside a colony’s walls it’s not quite this strong.

Lalah’s laugh is clear and bright as a bell. “Are you okay?”

“Delete that picture and I will be,” Amuro grumbles, pushing himself up again.

Lalah takes another picture of him and winks. “Don’t you want to remember this time?”

Amuro groans. The plan to delete it himself already seems a bit silly, and he’s not going to try again after literally falling on his face. It isn’t as if he has a strong rebuttal; he has nothing against pictures, even if doesn’t have many. Just because he doesn’t really take them and hasn’t had enough good friends to end up in other people’s pictures doesn’t mean it can’t be nice to look at them and reminisce, from time to time. An old photo’s all he’s got to remember his mother by, after all. Or - had, since he left it on Side 7. It’s probably still there in his room somewhere, assuming his room hasn’t been taken apart to search for evidence for why he’d turn traitor against the Federation. “Take as many pictures as you want, just get rid of that one.”

“Hmm, maybe.” She flops down on her back, turning her head to look at Amuro for a moment longer before rededicating her attention to the tablet. “Say, you’re from Earth, too."

Amuro hesitates a moment. It wasn’t a question, but even so: “Yes. Why?”

“Is there anyone you want to visit while we’re stuck here?”

“Not really.” Chewing on his thumbnail, Amuro looks away. He leans against the little table opposite the two beds. Char’s settled in on the other one, and Amuro looks between them, then narrows his eyes. “Hey, hey. Where am I supposed to sleep?”

“What, you want your own room? How spoiled,” Char says with a grin. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?”

“Oh, I hate you.” Amuro’s covers his face with his hands even as he feels his skin heat up; he must be as red as Char’s stupid mobile suit right now. (By now, Amuro’s started taking it as almost a weird sort of pride that, despite how much the Gundam stands out, he hasn’t demanded everyone take time out of their day to help repaint it his favorite color or something. He’s really just being contrary, though; it might be nice to repaint it from its original color scheme. It looks - given its provenance - entirely too much like a Federation mobile suit, and they’re not operating under the auspices of the Federation at all.) “I’ll sleep on the floor, I guess.”

“There’s a second bed in Ramba and Hamon’s room.” Char sits down on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his arms. “You could always ask them.”

“Why should he be the one to ask if you’re the one offering to give up your bed?” Lalah asks, giggling.

“That isn’t what I meant.” Char is trying, and failing, to sound dignified.

“Oh? The alternative seems awfully mean.”

“It’s that or the two remaining Tri-Stars,” Char says, “and I doubt they’d be willing to put up with either of us right now.”

It’s weird, Amuro thinks, spending time with the two of them. It’s - normal. Comfortable. He’s killed so many people in the past few weeks that it feels almost vulgar, having goofy arguments about photos and where to sleep, like they’re just friends on a regular vacation. Like they didn’t end up on Earth because of a battle gone wrong, like they aren’t going to inevitably end up in even more fights. Even Lalah, who hasn’t been in a real fight yet, has been preparing for combat for - apparently - years now.

Amuro keeps his hands over his face, but less out of shame, more out of the simple discomfort of being overwhelmed thinking about the fact that they’re sitting here having fun with the whole Earth sphere teetering on the brink of open war. (There’s a _reason_ both sides have so many mobile suits already. There’s a reason mobile suits are being tested and developed and iterated on to begin with; the Gundam he’s piloting isn’t the first version. He’s seen the plans change over time, seen the material specifications get altered after test flights and mock battles. His father’s been on the project for years now, and that’s not an accident.)

Someone takes his hands in theirs, and for a second Amuro’s stupid enough to hope it’s Char, but they’re small and soft and uninjured, and sure enough, Amuro opens his eyes to see Lalah peering at him reassuringly.

“Listen,” she says, steady and calm. “Amuro. The fact that things are so awful makes moments like this more important, doesn’t it? You need something to fight for. So why not this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” That answer’s almost instinctive. Amuro stops to shake his head, then looks back up at Lalah again. “No. You haven’t fought anyone yet yourself, and that’s … what you just said, that’s not why you’d fight.”

“It’s not,” she agrees. “But we’re different. We don’t need the same reasons, as long as we have them. As long as you have something you believe in, as long as you have a good reason to support the Captain -“

“I’m not going to fight just for him,” Amuro tells her. She’s still holding onto his hands; he twists them a little in her grasp, so he’s holding on just as intently. Outside the window, clouds drift past the moon; not a single star is visible through the light that reflects off of the clouds. Amuro watches the motion of the clouds. “Isn’t it selfish, to be willing to kill people just for him?”

“You’ve been fighting for one person, too.” Lalah smiles, crookedly. Even so, she looks sad. “Just to stay alive. That’s as selfish as it gets, but that doesn’t make it bad.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m on your side for now.”

“Mm. Maybe.” This, of everything Amuro’s said, seems to startle her. “It’s not a good reason, but it’s worked out so far. You’re right, I’d hate it if I had to fight against someone with such a crude justification.”

“How is wanting to stay alive bad?”

“It’s not; it’s just - that can’t be all.” Finally, she lets go of his hands, stepping away and pacing the room, tracing a dreamy, meandering path around the limited space. “You never wanted to fight at all, but here you are.”

“Here I am. I just … I’m tired.” Amuro stares down at the carpet, gaze wandering across the pattern.

“You can just have the bed, if you want,” Char offers; Amuro startles, as he’d nearly forgotten Char was there. The fact that Char managed to shut up for that entire conversation, not interrupting once - Amuro’s almost grateful. “I’m not _that_ heartless.”

After a long, long pause, Amuro settles on, “I can share. It’s fine.” It’s selfish, maybe, but sleeping alone suddenly feels very lonesome, even though it’s something he’s always done.

Char looks like he might say something, but a look between him and Lalah stops him.

Amuro rubs at his eyes. It really is late, and it’s been a strange, strange day. Even after talking to Lalah, he feels weighed down by his own thoughts.

It’s sometime much later - with Char asleep, facing away from him but close enough that Amuro can feel his body heat, and the clock announcing some unfathomable hour - that Amuro realizes he never actually said anything to _start_ that conversation with Lalah. And somehow, that realization isn’t at all surprising. Of course she knew. She’s Lalah Sune.

-

At some point, Amuro must fall asleep, because he wakes up to something damp on his side. He grumbles a bit, shoving his face into the pillow and trying to move away, but moving finally alerts him to what’s touching him.

Turns out, it’s Char’s hand on his side. Char isn’t even _that_ close, and Amuro wouldn’t mind were it not for the fact that Char’s bled through the bandage on his hand. Amuro yelps, and ends up falling out of bed, startled - mostly by the blood.

Char wakes up, fumbles around for a moment, and puts on his fucking sunglasses before leaning over the edge of the bed to look at Amuro. Amuro stares up at him.

“Do you ever not wear those?”

Char snorts. “Are you alright? Is there a reason you’re on the floor?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“And that explains you being on the floor?” Char yawns. “Wait, I’m - ah, I am, aren’t I.”

“Come on.” Amuro gets up, and heads toward the bathroom, beckoning Char to follow. 

(Lalah, briefly, stirs, mumbles a question about what’s going on; Char ruffles her hair then finally joins Amuro.)

“Here, here. Sit.” Amuro gestures toward the edge of the tub, yanking the shower curtain aside; he sits down on the closed toilet. The space is cramped, but at least all the surfaces in here clean up easily enough, Amuro’s argument last night about tile’s ability to stain notwithstanding. He’s very aware of it, all of a sudden, but Char has the decency not to bring it up, or else has forgotten. Either-or, Amuro’s counting himself lucky.

He unwraps the old, soaked-through bandage. The stitches are still in place, but enough blood has seeped through even so. They didn’t bring much luggage, but Ramba Ral insisted on a first aid kit the other day. Amuro will have to thank him later.

He uses an alcohol wipe to clean up the cut; Char winces, but keeps quiet, watching as Amuro goes to work. Every now and again, Char manages to drop his pretenses, and Amuro thinks, maybe he _can_ understand Char, some day.

“Yesterday,” Amuro says after a moment, as he continues to slowly, meticulously tidy up Char’s wound. “That Garma guy. You really didn’t know him, did you?”

“I didn’t.” Char inhales quickly, but remains otherwise impassive, and it takes Amuro a moment to realize the alcohol probably stings on the not-yet-healed gash. The thought doesn’t stop him - one way or another, the wound needs tending to - but. He feels a small measure of sympathy.

Even so: “But he thought he knew you. And he knew your name. You …”

“He must have confused me with someone else,” Char says, laughing, then, at the look Amuro shoots him, leans back a little, holding up his free hand defensively. “No, no, you’re right. I - do you know the word doppelganger?”

Amuro shrugs. “I’ve heard it, I guess. I don’t know. No.”

“They used to use the word _fetch_. It means - sort of a double. An evil twin. Someone who looks just like you, sounds just like you, but isn’t you. Someone like that could take over your life.” Char’s smile is the opposite of reassuring. “Sometimes in the stories, the doppelgänger is like a spirit, or a ghost. That sort of thing. They’re supposed to be a bad omen.”

“Are you saying you have an evil twin who has your name, or that Garma met a ghost?” Amuro asks, tiredly. Discarding all the bloody alcohol wipes he’s used, he starts digging around in the first aid kit until finding a length of cloth bandage. “Because either way, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, no, I’m saying I’m the evil twin.” He knocks his foot against Amuro’s ankle.

“Uh-huh.”

“Fine, fine.” Char’s expression softens. “You’re not going to like the truth any better, you know.”

“I still want to hear it.” Amuro looks down, turning his focus to wrapping Char’s palm up in fresh gauze. There’s already blood seeping out of the closed-up gash again; it’s only just started to scab over properly. The room smells heavy with blood.

Char pauses, scratching his uninjured hand through his hair. “I don’t think I’ve ever explained this to anyone directly. Ramba Ral knows, because he helped, but - well, anyway, when I was growing up, I happened to stay with a family that … their son looked just like me. Even my sister almost mixed us up, a few times.”

Amuro makes sure the bandage is secure, then turns Char’s hand over, patting his knuckles and letting go. “You have a sister?”

“No. Yes. That’s beside the point. What matters is that I took someone else’s identity.”

“Does your sister have a double, too?”

Char gives an exaggerated shrug. “Who knows. I get to keep some mysteries, don’t I?”

“No one needs as many mysteries as you have, Char,” Amuro says, standing up carefully. He thinks about it for a moment, and decides he may as well brush his teeth. Char’s gotten more than enough attention for one morning. A fucking _evil twin_. Whatever. But then - Garma had seemed worried for that other Char, and Amuro doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Char was telling the truth. It’s identity theft on a grand scale, the sort of thing reserved for the most melodramatic thriller movies Fraw liked to make him watch.

Char watches him brush his teeth, which is an objectively weird thing to do, then says, “Do you think you can help me undress for the shower?”

Amuro stares at him. “No.”

“Mean,” Char says, and without turning around, hauls off the shirt he slept in. It’s an awkward maneuver done one-handed, especially since Char’s being so delicate with his injured hand.

“You couldn’t have showered _before_ I changed your bandages?” Amuro asks after a beat. He gets a washcloth wet, giving himself the most perfunctory sort of cleaning in the sink, focused mainly on the blood staining his side. He eyes Char in the mirror as he does so.

“You’re the one who was so intent on getting my bandages changed first thing.” Char pauses, making a face and seeming nearly apologetic for once. “Honestly, I didn’t think about it until now.”

“Well, if you get the bandage wet, I’m not helping again. Make Ramba Ral do it or something.”

Char just hums in response, shimmying out of his underwear and turning away at long last to turn on the shower. He’s _right there_. The hotel bathroom is bigger than the one on the _Zanzibar_ , but it’s still small when two people try to fit in it. It would be very, very easy for Amuro to act on his impulses right now.

But Lalah’s in the other room, only half asleep, and Amuro has other things he wants to do with his day while he’s stuck here on Earth, and he splashes his face with cold water - pretending to wash his face again - and makes a break for it before he can do anything stupid.

-

For once in his life, Garma thinks about trying to be discreet - dress in drab colors, maybe put on a hat, something to make it a little less obvious who he is as he prepares for a cover meeting with someone who could very easily be programmed to kill or kidnap him. Something about Amuro’s affect makes Garma prone to trust him, but he knows better, by now, than to trust his own intuition. People have tricked him too many times. Not that it’s going to stop him from taking this risk; he wants to know if there’s any chance of Char actually remembering him too badly to skip out on this meeting.

He ends up dressing in a bright orange jacket and pants with an over-the-top geometric pattern. All the better to be recognized if he gets kidnapped or dragged into a dark alley and shot.

It’s still a few minutes before the scheduled meeting, and he stands in line at the coffee shop, staring up at the menu for far too long even though he already knows what he wants. His head’s all over the place, today, spikes of anxiety keeping him from focusing. It’s barely even ten and he’s already exhausted by himself.

A sudden voice from behind him makes him jump. “Garma.”

“Oh, you’re alone,” Garma says, then sighs heavily. Of course he let himself get snuck up on. There are other people behind him in line, but Amuro’s joined him; no one looks pleased about the fact that he’s cut in line. Garma thinks about reprimanding him, but decides that would be a bad idea. The trouble really is that he wasn’t paying attention. “I should be more careful, shouldn’t I?”

“What?”

Garma narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Amuro intensely. Probably he’s not about to murder Garma _this_ publicly. “Hmm. Well, in any case, I’ll buy, don’t worry.”

Amuro shrugs, and doesn’t argue; Garma wonders if he even has any money.

“So listen,” Garma says, looking back up at the menu. He lowers his voice. Might as well get right to it: “What do you know about Char from - before the labs?”

Amuro wants to ask about the labs, but - “He’s got a sister, apparently. That’s really it. He hasn’t told me anything about himself.”

“Well, of course not. He wouldn’t be able to, would he,” Garma says, with another sigh. The conversation is interrupted, briefly, by the process of ordering, but Garma picks up where he left off right after they’re done. “Are you - you’re too young to be one of the doctors, I think, unless you’re a child prodigy. That’s what I figured yesterday, anyway, but now -“

“I’m not a doctor.” Amuro fusses with the hem of his shirt. He looks very young, in that moment. He can’t be more than a couple years younger than Garma, but Garma - who is very used to being the youngest, even now that he’s an uncle - sort of wants to protect him. It’s too late for that now, though. “What do you know about the labs?”

“Not enough.” Garma frowns at him, trying to figure Amuro out. “I have the basic idea of what happens there, but … listen, you’re not Char’s handler, either, right?”

“No,” Amuro says, bewildered. His surprise seems sincere, and Garma decides he can probably trust him. Maybe. As far as any Cyber Newtype can be trusted, anyway. “I don’t think anyone can handle Char, honestly.”

Garma laughs at that. “At least some things don’t change!”

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have forgotten,” Amuro says. “But - listen. I want to know more about Char. If it’s okay.”

Garma’s expression softens for a moment, before he’s overcome with a deep melancholy. At the bar, their drink orders finally come up; Amuro grabs them and finds a table in the corner. “You like him a lot, don’t you?”

Amuro shrugs, and looks away.

“Char and I met in school,” Garma says. It’s been a while since he’s had a chance to talk about Char. He crosses his arms on the tabletop, leaning forward. “This was … well, my older brother kept saying I should go to the military academy, but I wanted to be a scholar, and Degwin agreed, so I ended up at university against Gihren’s wishes. It’s not like an older brother should get to make those kind of choices, right? In any case - Char was always sort of … in second place, I guess. Always trying to catch up to me. He was kind, but - that motivation of his pushed me forward, too. He was always saying that … your family, your birth, it doesn’t have to define you. I don’t think I fully believed him even then, but - I wanted to. That’s the kind of person he was.”

“What did you study?”

“We were both in the political science program,” Garma says. “I had a double major in art history; that’s what I’m going to grad school for now, but Char was planning on a law degree. Not that he got to follow through on it.”

Amuro stares at him. “Go on.”

Garma pauses, looking up at the ceiling. He fidgets with the zipper on his jacket, absentmindedly, head listing a little to one side. Just last year, he’d been back on Side 3 for Degwin’s birthday, and Gihren had one of his awful little experiments with him. Amuro’s blank stare reminds him of her. “You’re all so unsettling.”

Amuro’s blank expression dissolves into a scowl.

Garma startles a little, and holds his hands up. “Not that it’s your fault! It’s not, I get it. Say, why are you on Earth, anyway? I didn’t think - it seems odd that you’d get such free rein. How did you get away? Do they give you all vacations, now?”

“You really do talk a lot,” Amuro says, sounding fascinated. “I guess you could say we escaped. You know. Got off the asteroid. Managed to get to Earth, I guess.”

“You guess, huh.” Garma starts fussing with his straw, restlessly nudging the ice in his drink around with it. He’s got a theory forming - that Amuro and Char were allowed to make a break for it, just to mess with him. Well - more that Char was allowed to, and Amuro tagged along and whoever all worked at the lab were willing to cut their losses on him as a less-successful attempt. He said he was from Earth; maybe the enhancements really do work best on those born in space. Letting a half-failed experiment tag along for a little while would be no great loss; probably someone’s ready to scoop Char and Amuro up and take them back any moment now, once Garma’s been suitably rattled by the experience of seeing that the Char he knew has been so completely erased. Gihren’s pettiness knows no bounds. 

“It’s complicated.” Amuro shrugs. “We may have stolen some things.”

“Well, whatever the case may be,” Garma says, laughing bitterly. “Why did you come to Earth? What made you pick here, out of anywhere? It seems like an awful lot of effort to go through. Did Char mention me even once?”

“He didn’t,” Amuro admits. “But - well, you clearly know him, but he doesn’t know you. Were you two close, before?”

Garma laughs. “I didn’t finish my story, huh? About me and Char. Well.” He half-unzips his jacket, then digs around under his shirt, grabbing a thin chain and showing off the ring. “You’re not mad, right? It’s not - after he left -“

“You were engaged, huh.” Amuro sort of nods to himself, looking resigned, but, thankfully, not angry. It’s in the past anyway. Garma’s got no real hope of that wedding they spent so much time planning ever going forward anymore.

“And then suddenly he had to leave and take a job mining an asteroid, and, well - it’s not like I don’t know what that lab is for, I’m not an idiot. Gihren hated Char, and he’s always been bitter that dad let me do as I pleased. I’m just the spoiled Zabi brat, right? Coasting on my name instead of living up to it?” Garma huffs out a breath, frustrated. It’s sentimental of him, but even after years, even having finally started to see other people, he still wears the engagement ring as a reminder - that, for at least a little while, he planned on forsaking the Zabi name entirely, making his reputation under a different name entirely. Kycilia had always scolded him, as a kid, for not living up to the Zabi name; for a moment there, he’d thought, _what if I don’t_? and then his family had taken that from him, too. “If they needed test subjects, they could have picked anyone. We had other classmates with more promising test results anyway.”

Amuro hums, thoughtfully. He doesn’t look angry, and Garma’s grateful for that much. Amuro is - confusing. It’s hard to guess how much he knows about anyone or anything at all.

“Like I said.” Garma sighs. He’s going to have a bit of a breakdown about this later, he’s sure, but right now, in public, trying to patiently explain to his memory-wiped ex’s unstable human-turned-weapon fling - it’s all so absurd that he can’t quite process it yet. “It’s been years; I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I suppose this way, though, I still haven’t. I still can’t.”

“You thought they sent him back here to prove a point,” Amuro says, leaning back in his chair. “To prove they could erase people’s memories, in addition to everything else. Just to rub it in your face.”

“What was I supposed to think?” Garma scoffs. “The memory thing … that wasn’t even the original intent, but when you start playing with people’s minds …”

“That’s not why we’re here, I promise,” Amuro says. Garma would like to believe him.

“I still don’t know that I understand what Governor Deikun means when he talks about Newtypes, but I know it’s not…” Garma gestures in Amuro’s general direction. The blank stare he gets in return inadvertently reinforces his point. “This. There has to be a better way to move humanity forward than what they’ve done to you.”

Amuro’s silent. He seems troubled, which is fair enough.

“Sorry, I’m not mad at you! It’s not your fault. I don’t even know what you think, maybe you’re fine with it. Are you fine with it?” Garma smiles apologetically. There are at least a few people who volunteered. For a little while, Garma himself had considered it - there was something appealing about the idea of having powers like that. Being able to understand others. But that wasn’t what Gihren was after, and Garma knew better, and he’s long since resigned himself to being completely and utterly normal. “I shouldn’t just assume; it just seems - to me - but I’m not the one whose brain they meddled with, am I?”

“No, you’re right. That’s definitely not what I signed up for,” Amuro says. He looks down at the table uneasily. “I can’t say I understand, either, really. Listen, I’m sorry about Char. He’s … it sounds like he used to be a really nice person.”

“Is he not anymore?”

Amuro starts chewing at his thumbnail again, staring off into the middle distance. “It’s not that he isn’t nice. He’s just - a different person from the one you knew, that’s all.”

-

“You really think he’s the pilot of that unidentified mobile suit?” Bright asks, offering his arm as he lets Sayla put the cuff on to check his blood pressure. He hasn’t been feeling well these last few days; mostly, it’s because of not getting enough sleep, but the captain insisted he get a check-up, so. Here he is. The infirmary’s otherwise empty, the ship’s doctor off-duty for the moment and no one else in need of attention.

“I’m sure of it,” Sayla says. Her being here is - confusing, to say the least. Bright himself is torn about being on the White Base; it means he’s finally _doing_ something, instead of biding his time as a glorified security guard. What makes it more frustrating is that the only reason he’s here is as punishment. He gets the impression that somewhere along the line the brass have decided he needs to be whipped into shape for the crime of believing a friend; he sat through more than enough hours of interviews, testifying as to Amuro’s character, to know what they think of both of them. Bright’s tried to keep his head down and show his dedication, but - it’s early days yet. His family name may well be all that’s kept him out of the brig, and he can’t tell if this is what it means to fail upward, or if the hope is that he’ll somehow die in combat. “Well, mostly sure. He’s definitely not in the Gundam, anyway.”

Being on the lowest rung of the officer ladder feels bizarre, after so many years spent managing staff at the coffee shop. A few enlisted men seem alright with him; Sayla’s his closest ally on the ship. Which doesn’t help, since her presence is predicated on a conversation she and the captain had in private, that led to a conversation with some of the EFSF’s top brass, and now she’s just sort of allowed to do whatever it is she wants, and she won’t trust Bright with it, never mind that he used to be her boss.

“How do you know?”

“Well, he and Char stole it, but I can’t see Char just letting Amuro keep flying it,” Sayla says, checking Bright’s eyes, unremarked, as she does. “You met him. There’s no way he would just let someone else have the fancy new stolen mobile suit.”

“The Gundam’s armor is leagues beyond most of the other suits we’ve seen them launch, though,” Bright says. “If Amuro’s really defected, it would be safest to keep him in it since he’s so inexperienced. That’s if they’re letting him pilot anything at all, and I don’t see why they’d bother risking it. Surely they have pilots of their own.”

Sayla turns away, busying herself looking at charts, clearly paying absolutely no attention to them at all. Her shoulders are tense, head ducked down. The room isn’t so big that she can avoid Bright noticing the way her jaw works in frustration just by facing the other direction. “I don’t know if Char cares that much about keeping anyone alive other than himself.”

“Sayla …” Bright pauses, trying to figure out how to put this. He’s worked with her for a year and a half now, but thinks his read on her from then was all wrong. She’d been a diligent worker, supportive of her coworkers, occasionally a bit distractible; mostly she’d given the impression of calm and stillness. Unflappable, even in the face of the most upset customers. Now, he thinks that stillness was something else. “I think you might be projecting. I know he was a regular, but you don’t know him that well.”

Sayla laughs, and waves a hand toward the door, and she seems like his old employee again. “If you say so. Listen, you’re fine, they just wanted to waste your time. It was nice talking to you. Go get some lunch and take the afternoon off; you’ll be okay.”

“A day off?” Bright asks, bemused. It’s still odd not being the one giving orders anymore. Not that she has any right to give _him_ orders, either, as a civilian wholly outside the Federation’s ranks. “Is that your official medical opinion?”

“Everyone’s taking shore leave anyway; you might as well, right?” Sayla smiles at him, though the expression seems somehow hollow. Her mind must be somewhere else entirely. A wistful edge creeps into her voice. “It must be nice being back on Earth. Visiting home again.”

Bright pauses at the door. “Home’s on the other side of the planet.”

“Well, even so.” Sayla shakes her head. “No, no. I know my geography better than that, you’re right. I’m distracted, that’s all.”

“Are you alright?” Bright asks, hesitating. “This is an awfully strange place for a civilian. It must be a lot to deal with -“

“Oh, like you have any more experience at this than I do. None of us have been to war, Bright, it’s new for everybody.” Sayla points at the door. Bright considers pointing out that war hasn't actually been declared yet, then decides the better of it. Now isn't the time. “Go on, get. I mean it. Do some sightseeing.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Earth.

Amuro isn’t entirely clear how it happens, but somehow Garma manages to talk him into going shopping. Though he didn’t have any particular clear plans for the day, he can say with utmost confidence that he didn’t expect this to be how things turned out.

Even though Char is a bit reckless with money, Garma is on a whole other level; he seems completely oblivious to the fact that he drops a few hundred dollars on maybe two outfits, total, for Amuro; he also doesn’t seem to think this is at all an odd thing to do for a near-total stranger. Amuro goes along with it half because he’s so confused that he doesn’t see a reason not to, and half because - if he’s honest with himself - he thinks Char’s reaction to the clothes Garma is picking out will be funny. Lalah would approve, he’s pretty sure, so. It’s fine.

Garma even humors him and they wander into a souvenir shop, full of keychains and novelty t-shirts; the store smells absolutely terrible, like cheap chemicals and bad fabric dye. In his own confused way, Amuro’s having fun, right up until he spots a familiar uniform. He freezes in the middle of the store, and Bright just so happens to turn around and see him.

Amuro makes a move to escape, but Bright’s reaction time is quicker, and he manages to grab hold of Amuro’s arm. 

“Amuro!” Amuro’s had to hear that exact tone - sharp, a little exasperated - so many times. It’s surreal hearing it here on Earth, nowhere near the confines of his old job. “What are you doing here?”

“Souvenir shopping?” Amuro offers lamely, hoisting up his shopping bags so Bright can see. The store isn’t too busy, but Amuro doesn’t want to make this even more of a scene. “Leave me alone.”

“Absolutely not,” Bright says. Then Bright hits him. Amuro’s never been scared of Bright before, not really, but now he’s questioning how he ever missed that Bright was military. Of course he is, with that bearing, that attitude; he should be more shocked, maybe, at being struck, but he finds himself staring instead, feeling somehow hollow. Detached even from the immediacy of the sensation, the sting of his cheek where Bright just struck him. Bright’s grip on his arm tightens. “Are you alright? Listen, come with me. If you don’t resist, maybe -“

Amuro jerks his arm free, backing off a few steps. He glances around, trying to figure out if he can knock something over, maybe, cut Bright off and buy himself a little time if he runs. “What, if I turn myself in, I’ll just get life in prison instead of an execution?”

“It doesn’t have to be like that. Why are you doing this? If you’d just showed up to work that day instead -”

Then Garma sweeps in, cheerful as can be, slipping in between them like he’s completely oblivious to the ongoing conversation. “Ah, you look just like my cousin! Here, try this, I want to see how it looks on you,” he says, plunking a baseball hat on Bright’s head.

Whatever happens after that, Amuro misses it, because he takes the opportunity he’s been given and runs for it. He just hopes Garma’s not going to get in trouble, but there’s not really time to worry about it just yet. 

Trying to run through a busy street means a lot of ducking and dodging, and Amuro’s still a little off-balance being on Earth, nearly knocking several people over as he bolts. A few belatedly shouted apologies probably don’t do much to endear him to anyone. He can hear, in the far distance, Bright shouting his name, so he keeps going until he can’t anymore.

Several blocks later, he pauses to catch his breath. He’s woven down a few streets, cut through an alley, and he _thinks_ he’s probably fine. Even so. He gets on the subway anyway; the hotel was a few stops away from the coffee shop where Garma wanted to meet. Even when he’s off the train again, he takes a meandering route, just in case.

When he gets back to the hotel room, his key card doesn’t work, and no one answers when he knocks.

The ride back down on the elevator is almost more harrowing than the encounter with Bright; he’s hoping everyone’s just - out to lunch, maybe. Or his card got deactivated somehow and he’ll get it sorted out at the front desk and be back with his friends and ready to escape the planet again in no time.

The concierge at the desk takes his key, checks something in the computer, and says, “Sorry, it looks like the rest of your party checked out an hour and a half ago.”

“An hour and a half ago,” Amuro repeats incredulously. His heart rate and breathing were settling down, after that long elevator ride, but this news doesn’t help his physical wellbeing.

“That’s right. Did you leave anything in the room?” They seem bored, but sympathetic, not that sympathy is much use right now.

“Uh.” Amuro considers this. There’s only one thing he’d really regret losing right now. “Unless you found a little green robot …?”

“Let me check,” the concierge says, and wanders off into the back.

Amuro folds his arms, staring down at the desk. For a little while, he paces back and forth, then stops when he catches an old woman in the lobby frowning at him. Giving her an awkward smile, he turns back around and tries to stand still, though he still ends up rocking back and forth on his heels.

Only a few minutes pass before the concierge comes back, empty-handed, looking apologetic. “No, sorry. They did leave a note, though. It says, uh. ‘Had to leave early, sorry.’”

“Right,” Amuro says, looking up at the ceiling for a change of pace. What Amuro wants, rather than pity, is his friends. If they’re friends. Which - maybe, maybe not. He thought they were but he’s a little panicked at the moment, despair kicking in. “Right, okay, of course it does. Great. Thank you.”

“Sorry,” the concierge offers, and Amuro is vaguely aware of acknowledging that somehow, maybe; in any case, he leaves the lobby and heads back onto the street.

He takes stock of the situation. He’s got next to no money. He _does_ have a few changes of clothes, somehow, thanks to Garma. Bright, and by proxy the whole Federation probably, know he’s both on Earth and in New Yark, and that he’s not going along willingly. Any hope he might have had of feigning innocence - trying to claim he got _accidentally_ roped into the theft and subsequently aligning himself with a ragtag group of paramilitary insurgents from Side 3 - is probably gone after he decided to run.

It’s possible Garma’s been arrested; either way, Amuro doesn’t want to contact him just yet, paranoid that trying to do that would give away his location. The only other person he knows on Earth lives on the far side of the continent. 

Maybe he should just turn himself in. He could take this opportunity to just - stop. To get out of the mess he got himself into. If not turn himself in, then run and hide; gather up the money, somehow, to get across the continent back to his hometown. Maybe his mother would let him stay for a while, let him keep his head down and go back to a normal life. 

If this is supposed to be a test of Amuro’s loyalty or commitment, that’s stupid, and Amuro won’t stand for it. Maybe it’s not, though; the Federation _is_ after them, and somehow Bright ended up finding him on accident. Char’s the one they’re actually looking for. Him and the others making a break for it and not being able to give him any real clues makes a certain level of sense. Or maybe Amuro’s overthinking it; maybe they just didn’t feel like waiting before leaving Earth.

Maybe they don’t actually want him coming along. (Maybe Char doesn’t actually -)

Amuro ducks into a deli, pacing restlessly up and down the aisles, only half pretending to look at anything; he ends up buying some halva with some of the little cash he has purely so it looks like he had an actual reason to visit the shop. Mostly he’s just trying to buy time to think without being out in the open. Having a snack does nothing to calm his nerves at all. All it does is make him wonder how Fraw’s doing back on Side 7. He never really thought about how much he relied on her, back then. It hasn’t been that long but it feels like forever.

Every now and then as he wanders the city he has to duck out of the way and hide from police or, once, an armed Federation officer, just in case. Bright’s probably alerted everyone by now.

Somehow Amuro’s thrown his entire future away so he can follow around a smug weirdo who’s turned him into a murderer, and maybe he _should_ turn himself in, because it’s not like he’s some hardliner when it comes to the cause of spacenoid independence. He isn’t opposed, per se, just - it doesn’t have to be him. Maybe, maybe if he turns himself in, gives up all the information he has, he’ll be able to get some kind of bargain out of it and not end up executed or in jail for life. Maybe he should have gone with Bright when he had the chance, because he probably could have gotten Bright to vouch for him, maybe, possibly. Bright defended him against corporate a few times. Now that he’s thinking about it, Bright was really a better manager than Amuro liked to give him credit for. But that doesn’t especially matter anymore, now that Amuro’s a pilot who’s killed, at this point, six people, and now that Bright’s a full-time soldier. That Amuro got away feels like pure chance. Next time he doubts he’ll be so lucky.

Without meaning to, Amuro finds himself at a huge triangle-shaped intersection, surrounded by advertisements. Even he’s heard of Times Square before. There are people in mascot costumes taking photos with little kids, families wandering from store to store, an inexplicable roller coaster, and, up on one of the screens, a news broadcast from Side 3. The news wouldn’t normally catch Amuro’s eye so quickly, but his friend Kai’s reporting in front of a chaotic scene of tear gas and armed guards, and the chyron says that Zeon zum Deikun’s in the hospital in critical condition, and that the situation is _deteriorating_ , which feels like an understatement.

The broadcast cuts abruptly to a carefully-styled woman reporting from a peaceful newsroom somewhere else after Kai is struck by a security officer. She seems entirely too placid about the _ongoing unrest_ , as the closed captioning says, though she does have the respect to look mildly concerned about Kai for a moment before carrying on. The story switches to something about a construction project in London, and Amuro stops paying attention.

Amuro’s still wavering, somehow, staring mostly-unseeing up at the monitor. He feels like this moment should be a catalyst, some sort of deciding moment - that he’s going to run and hide at his mom’s house, that he’s going to stand up and fight - but he feels frozen in the middle of Times Square, useless and overwhelmed and adrift.

And then a great white bird wings its way past the screen, and Amuro’s no longer frozen in place, his feet moving before he realizes he means to follow it. Hardly anyone seems to notice it, somehow. The swan wends its way above the city streets joyfully, carefree, and Amuro lets it lead the way.

Then it soars upward, and he stops, and realizes the bird led him to a train station. Right. Right, the shipyard’s over in Jersey. It would make sense that the others would be there. He goes in, buys himself a ticket almost on autopilot. He doesn’t have much money left, but it’s fine. He won’t be here long.

In the train station bathroom, before boarding, he changes into one of the outfits Garma bought him. It’s not quite his style, but maybe being dressed differently will buy him some time. He ends up buying a souvenir hat from a little newsstand before getting on the train, too, pulling it down low on his brow. He wishes he had a pair of sunglasses too, but then again, wearing sunglasses inside needlessly is officially the most annoying thing in the world, so he’s going to skip them for now. He wants to be incognito, not an asshole. 

The train ride feels like it takes forever, but he’s across the rivers and off the train in under half an hour. He ends up taking a bus from the train station to the shipyard, which adds more time.

There’s an issue, still: there’s more than one Zanzibar-class ship here, none of them with their ship's old color scheme, and - Amuro notes with extreme discomfort - a group of Federation officers talking to a tired-looking dockworker, who’s shrugging at them as they argue with him. He finds himself missing the bright red paint job, as silly as it was.

Amuro takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a moment, and then picks a ship. Char’s waiting for him, after all.

A Federation officer notices him crossing the tarmac from afar, and apparently decides he’s suspicious enough to yell at, and Amuro breaks into a run. He’d better have picked the right ship - there’s no one outside it, but he can hear its engines starting up as its hatch closes, and he has to _jump_ ; at least he’s adjusted enough to Earth’s gravity to have a better judge on when and with how much force. He hits the floor hard, and rolls as the ramp pulls up.

He lies on the floor panting, staring up at the ceiling. The whole ship rumbles as the engines roar to life.

-

“There you are!” Even though he has to shout to be heard, Char tries not to sound _too_ excited to see Amuro again. It’s only half a surprise. Lalah had been no help, for once, refusing to tell him if she thought Amuro was coming or not. She’s being a bit of a brat about the whole thing. It isn’t like he _wanted_ to leave Amuro behind, but she’s been ignoring him most of the day despite that.

Amuro’s still catching his breath, lying on the ground. His hat - wherever he got _that_ from - has fallen off, and his hair’s an absolute mess.

Char leans over him. “Get up, we’re about to take off.”

Amuro looks up, disoriented. His expression’s hard to read. “That’s it?”

“I knew you’d make it,” Char claims, and holds a hand out, offering wordlessly to help Amuro up.

“You did not. Shut up.” After a moment’s hesitation, Amuro takes his hand and lets Char help.

Helpful as ever, Char shrugs once Amuro’s on his feet. He lets his grip loosen for a moment, almost letting go, but lets selfishness win out this once instead. Amuro’s held _his_ hand before. He can indulge himself.“Fine, I was worried. Is that what you want to hear?”

Just like Lalah, Amuro has no time for him today either. “Just - be honest.”

“I didn’t know if you would come back,” Char says, trying and failing not to let his frustration show. “Or if I’d ever see you again, honestly. When you vanished like that this morning …”

When Amuro left that morning, he didn’t tell anyone where he was going. Apparently he’d run into Crowley briefly, but only told her he was going to get some ice. They’d waited as long as they could, but it was Ramba Ral who was first to admit Amuro probably wasn’t coming back. Char hadn’t wanted to believe him, but. Amuro _had_ vanished off into the city without a word. This soon after the chaos of battle and Mash’s death - even though Mash and Amuro weren’t even remotely close, it _was_ still the first time Amuro’d had to deal with a compatriot dying in combat. Not that Char has that much more experience with it himself, really, but he’s had years to prepare himself for the concept of it at last. (He doesn’t know how he feels about Mash’s death, really. It’s easier to ignore it.)

“Anyway, here you are! Safe and sound,” Char huffs, not quite a laugh, as he drags Amuro toward the bridge. He’s already been through a whole cycle of emotions today, and he’d prefer not to have any more, if it’s possible. “Listen, I’m glad to see you, if that’s what you wanted to hear. Ah - Ramba, sorry for the delay. Look who I found. Let’s go!”

“Char …” Amuro starts to say, but he stops himself in favor of preparing for takeoff. Leaving atmosphere is a whole production, compared to departing a colony. Even flying _in_ atmosphere is simpler than the process of leaving Earth entirely.

Despite the fact that the Federation found them far too quickly, despite the fact that they have a ship that can enter and leave atmosphere now - a capability he didn’t realize they possessed yet - this is the calmest he’s been all day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ten thousand thanks to robin for helping me figure out some things i was stuck on with this chapter!
> 
> edit: i edited the last scene of this chapter on august 9th, 2020. sorry for any inconvenience!

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you,” Amuro says, sort of in awe. He wishes he could just sink his teeth into Char’s neck - it’s right _there_ \- but he’s not taking off his own helmet because he doesn’t have a death wish. Instead, he takes one hand off the controls, squeezing Char’s thigh hard.

“Just because the Federation has bad timing.” Char laughs, and Amuro thinks they’re both going to die, right here, right now, because Char is a goddamn idiot with no regard for anyone’s life or safety and because his stupid, perfect ass is in Amuro’s lap while Amuro is _trying_ to figure out a whole new weapons system in combat in open space. If this were a training exercise or something Amuro might be more prone to forgive him or find it funny or charming. It is not. “Come on, focus up - there you go, perfect!”

Sometime in the day or two they spent on Earth, someone - Amuro is not clear who - got a fancy new weapons system. The headset is uncomfortable, but he can’t deny the funnels are cool. He just needs to focus, which, with Char there, is difficult. But again: he does not want to die. Amuro absolutely refuses to die like this.

So, focus, focus, like Char says. Think of where the funnels should aim, fire. Think again, fire again. He breathes in, breathes out. That stupid horse ship has caught up to them again, and whoever’s on the guns is good; that combined with someone in a dinky little fighter means he can’t get close enough to pull that trick he did in his first combat, where he disabled the ship’s weapons. The _Zanzibar_ has the good graces to return fire at least, which provides cover, too, for Amuro as he tries to fight off their attackers.

It takes a few minutes of frantic scrambling alone before the other pilots get the chance to launch. Someone’s in Char’s old Zaku - it’s not Lalah. Maybe Ramba, but Amuro doesn’t have time to think about who that would leave on the bridge, because he needs to pay attention to surviving.

The headset for the funnels fits uncomfortably in his helmet, and it’s giving him a headache. “If we don’t die, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Char just laughs again, like he maybe thinks Amuro is kidding. All Amuro can think is how he wishes he wasn’t in his normal suit so he could feel how warm Char is. This is the worst day of his life. It’s the middle of the afternoon; he _should_ , rightfully, be at work, cleaning up the bar. It’s the middle of the week, not quite time for school to let out, so it would be nice and quiet at the store.

Bright would be hanging around, maybe trying to deal with a customer who wanted a refund on a drink they’d finished then claimed was made wrong, instead of just asking when they got it. Sayla would be hanging out at a table on her break studying some medical textbook. Things would be normal. But no, instead Amuro’s controlling a bunch of top-of-the-line secret weapons developed in secret for a spacenoid separatist movement _with his mind_ , and doing pretty well at it, if he’s being honest, and the one thing - the only thing! - that’s the same as those peaceful days is how he wants to fuck Char into the dirt, which. Whatever.

He needs to focus. So he does.

The one good thing Amuro will ever think about Char, ever, in his life: at least he’s being quiet for now. He can’t keep thinking about Char right now.

Once Amuro’s focused, he’s _focused_ , absolutely intent on protecting the _Zanzibar_ and the other pilots and, as an afterthought, his own mobile suit. After a certain point, he figures out that he doesn’t have to pick between the funnels and the Gundam’s traditional weaponry. If he really thinks about it, really plans things right, he can harry the enemy with fire from the funnels and attack them head-on at the same time, or snipe at them with the beam rifle from one direction and use the funnels to surround them, a one-man pincer formation.

Everything else falls away, past a certain point. His head hurts, but he can deal with that. He has to lean a little uncomfortably around Char to see properly, Char actually doing his best to keep out of the way, despite being _right there_ as they whip across the battlefield, but he can deal with that.

The other Gundam’s after him, off and on, but that’s fine, too. Amuro avoids them and tries to pick off the other combatants one by one instead, until eventually he doesn’t have any other choice. The rest of the _Zanzibar_ ’s crew focus on the enemy ship; Gaia and Ortega are good at drawing fire, and Ramba works well with them even in the slightly outdated mobile suit.

He can safely ignore that part of the battlefield for now.

Somehow, things are going well. The funnels are responding quickly and accurately, the other pilot seems off their game, and something in Amuro howls for blood, for victory, so he gives in to that.

He’s _this close_ to spearing the other Gundam through the cockpit when Char, fucking Char Aznable, the worst bastard in space, suddenly sits up straight, and shouts, “Stop!” and Amuro veers off course, the mobile suit tumbling wildly as he completely loses track of the funnels for a moment.

“What the _fuck_.”

“Artesia,” Char says, urgently, like that means something.

“What are you,” Amuro starts, then: “ _Sayla_?”

“Sure, Sayla, yes,” Char agrees, as the other Gundam renews its attack, and Amuro’s focused solely on dodging, now. “That’s her.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“I can tell it’s her, that’s all.” For once he isn’t laughing at all. “Call back the funnels. Turn off the beam saber. She wouldn’t attack if she knew who it was -“

“Really.” Amuro’s incredulous, mostly because of how relentless Sayla’s attacks are. (But - she’s being careful, isn’t she. She wants to disable, not destroy, and disable without killing the pilot.) He tries something, as he’s dodging, not bothering to counterattack; he calls the funnels in close, so they can both see them, and points them all away. Powers down the beam saber.

There’s a perfect opening to attack, but Sayla doesn’t take it.

It _is_ her, is the thing. Char is right, despite everything. It doesn’t make sense, except - “She’s your sister?”

Char sort of hums. Amuro puts a hand on his waist, for just a moment, then remembers the controls.

Sayla continues to hesitate. Something’s quenched her will to fight. Maybe she knows who she’s up against, too. Maybe she’s startled to realize that there are two people in the Gundam’s cockpit instead of one and that one’s her brother and one’s her former coworker and she only expected - only hoped to see - one, and maybe she wishes Amuro weren’t there at all. She thinks Char’s coerced him, maybe. That her brother isn’t as good of a person as she’d hoped. 

But he _is_ , Amuro thinks; Char is trying his best. He overcomplicates every situation he involves himself in, treats other people like they’re pieces to be moved about on a chess board, but he’s not so bad as all that. Sayla doesn’t agree, and who would know better, anyway, his sister - who hasn’t seen him in nearly a decade - or Amuro, who’s around him all the time, now, who’s still never seen him with his sunglasses off but knows the way Char looks when he allows himself to feel relief. Char was still a teenager last time Sayla saw him. 

But she grew up alongside him, and he protected her for all those years, and she knows what he’s capable of; she can look back on the way he treated others compared to the way he treated her and Char’s never been any good at being sincere with people he’s not bound to by blood. All that time on Side 7 and he never once let her get close enough to speak to him. She hopes Amuro’s right about her brother and she _wants_ to think he’s not trying to start a war but even as the thought crosses her mind she can feel the way Amuro winces at the reminder of some conversation or another she wasn’t privy to. That garbage about the inevitability of war; he picked that up from the Rals when they were younger. Had arguments with their father about it via written correspondence, in letters that got burned right after they were read, that she doesn’t have any of anymore despite her best efforts.

She wonders if Amuro can really be happy where he is now, if this is somehow alright with him - getting wrapped up in all this unnecessary conflict and death.

But there was no avoiding it, was there, and it’s not like Amuro was happy on Side 7, either. Safer, sure, but happy? He almost laughs at that notion out of sheer incredulity. (Somewhere much closer, not separated by vacuum, Char asks, “What’s so funny?” and Amuro shakes his head. Char twists around, pushing himself upwards and spinning to face Amuro, putting his hands on his helmet like he’s trying to cup his face through the glass and metal, says, “Amuro, can you tell her I want to keep her safe? Tell her to go home. Please.”)

Sayla’s not going to go home, though. “She won’t.”

“This isn’t like her,” Char says. “She doesn’t belong out here. She’s not supposed to be involved, let alone like this.”

Sayla, though, doesn’t think she has much other choice; _someone_ needs to try and talk him out of this. She doesn’t know what _this_ is, exactly, just that she hates it and wishes he’d come home and talk to her and they could live peacefully the way they used to, and Amuro doesn’t know how to relay that, exactly, but maybe Char gets the gist, just this once. Maybe he can sort of tell.

Maybe Sayla’s very, very tired of all of this and doesn’t want to fight but doesn’t know what else to do. 

Something like that, anyway. Maybe it’s something like that. The whole situation has given Amuro a pounding headache - the pressure of a helmet rendered too-tight by the headset, the pressure of Sayla’s presence, the fact that it’s Sayla at all.

She doesn’t want to fight anymore. The two mobile suits hang there in space, motionless, until Char covers Amuro’s hand with his own over the controls, jerking them back and away.

This time, the only thing that pursues them is the funnels, which neatly reattach to the Gundam as they flee. (Amuro can almost see it - his Gundam in retreat, the regathering of the funnels, the broad black hide of the sky with distant, dancing starlight piercing its darkness like needles; he feels weighed down, suddenly, by a sort of sorrow he’s never felt before. It isn’t his.)

Somehow, he and Char manage to get the Gundam safely back to the _Zanzibar_ and the ship manages to flee. Char only has one hand to help pilot with and Amuro can barely focus, but - he’s able to tell what Char wants him to do. Even with Amuro at the controls, it somehow feels more like Char is the one flying.

-

Amuro closes his eyes as he lets the handle drag him up the hallway. The ship feels much larger than usual, despite no actual change to its layout, or maybe it just feels like everything is in slow motion. He misses his room, and as he’s turning around to go back, Char catches up to him, grabbing his shoulder and then halting both their forward progress, boots firmly connected to the floor.

“Here,” Char says, fussing with Amuro’s helmet before taking it off for him. Amuro squints his eyes shut, shaking his head to clear it. When he’s done - when he’s taken a big breath of slightly-fresher but still metallic air - he looks at Char, whose expression reveals nothing, as always. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Char nods, over-serious. “Of course. You seem fine. Have you eaten today?”

“I’ve got some halva back in my room,” Amuro says, because he ate maybe three bites of it earlier while running across half of New Yark, and shoved the rest in his pocket, and now that Char mentions it, suddenly a snack sounds like a really good idea.

“Some - okay, okay.” Char laughs, a little too condescending for Amuro’s tastes. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

“I had some of it earlier. The halva.” Amuro pauses. “I ate a little of it.”

“Right,” Char says, and takes hold of Amuro’s arm and drags him toward the little cafeteria-slash-dining room. Amuro only realizes that’s where they’re going as they enter, but he’s not trying very hard to figure things out, right now. “Let’s get some food in you, then get you out of that normal suit, okay?”

“I’m not getting naked in the cafeteria.”

“Tsk, tsk. You’ve got a dirty mind, Amuro.” Char pushes him toward a table, and Amuro sits down, watching Char a little dazedly as Char grabs some food and beverages and brings them all over very politely. He doesn’t toss anything at Amuro to test his reflexes or _anything_ , just hands him a drink and an apple and lets him figure out the rest. Even though Char sits down across from him, gaze intent, Amuro ignores him, because it turns out he’s fucking starving. It’s been a long, long day, and he’s had coffee and maybe three bites of halva tops, and that’s not enough to fuel a jaunt across a whole Earth city, let alone a combat situation.

He’s finished his apple and halfway through a second sandwich and another drink - whatever it is tastes awful but it’s probably full of electrolytes so whatever, he’ll cope, it’s better than nothing - when he looks up again properly.

Char’s got his chin propped on his hands, still watching Amuro; for one unguarded moment he looks fond and thoughtful, until he notices Amuro returning his gaze. His smile goes slanted, and he waggles his eyebrows. “Better?”

“If you were so worried about me forgetting to eat, you could have done something _before_ we went out to test the funnels.”

“Ouch.” Char laughs. He untangles his fingers, leaning his head against one hand and reaching out toward Amuro for a moment; he decides the better of it, fingers hovering an inch away before he pulls his arm back and shrugs instead. His knuckles press against his cheek, sunglasses slightly askew. “I’ll remember for next time.”

Amuro looks down again, but he hooks his ankle around Char’s as he eats.

Char seems to take that as some kind of invitation, grabbing a grape - Amuro didn’t even notice he’d gotten those - and holds it out. Amuro moves to take it, but Char jerks his hand back. “Ah, ah.”

“I thought you wanted me to eat.”

Char shakes his head, drawing his hand back a little bit further as Amuro stretches across the table to try and steal it from him. “Open your mouth.”

“You’re not feeding me grapes.” Amuro covers his mouth with a fist. There are other grapes, totally unguarded, that he could just take if he wanted, but it’s the principle of the thing. 

“Do you want one or not?”

“Not that badly,” Amuro says, sitting back and folding his arms. His face is twitching as he tries not to smile.

“First you demand I look after you, now you won’t even let me feed you. Amuro, you’re so fickle.” Char half-stands, leaning across the table and shoving the grape in Amuro’s face, which finally breaks Amuro’s resolve and earns a smile.

“You’re such an asshole,” Amuro says, laughing as he pushes himself out of his seat, kicking off the bench to drift across the room and away from Char.

Of course there’s no way Char could back down from a challenge, and he launches himself after Amuro, just barely managing to grab him; the two of them end up in a dizzy spin before knocking into the ceiling.

Amuro tries to shove him away, but Char’s holding on too tight, at least for a moment. He lets go just long enough to jam his thumb in the corner of Amuro’s lips, trying to pry his mouth open, which just leads to Amuro biting down - hard - and the noise Char makes is somewhere between a yelp and a cackle.

“That’s what you get!”

“This is how you repay me. Awful,” Char says, and finally just eats the grape himself. “Look what you’ve done.”

“Oh, no, the grape I didn’t want,” Amuro says, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Shut up. Why are you like this?”

“I try and try to make the world a better place, and you just insult me and refuse my kindness.”

“When have you _ever_ shown anyone kindness?” Amuro asks, laughing, and Char maybe flinches a little at that, but Amuro’s not going to think about it or let himself feel guilty about it. Every single thing Char does is calculated; probably even that reaction is.

A bit of movement out of the corner of his eye - they’ve _finally_ stopped spinning, at least, because Char stopped them against a wall after their chaotic meander across the room - alerts Amuro to Ortega’s presence, moments before Ortega announces his presence himself, by going, “Fucking seriously?”

“What?” Amuro asks, defensive, as he pushes Char away and tries to straighten his hair. He just assumes it’s been messed up, probably, somehow. Maybe the way they were clinging to each other looked like — and Amuro distracts himself, face heating up as he thinks both of what it might have looked like and the fact that it wasn’t and also, the fact that it very easily could have been, given a little more initiative on his part, or Char’s, and now he’s thinking about how Char hasn’t even tried to do anything more than make out with him, and he panics for a second thinking maybe Char doesn’t _want_ to, like maybe something is wrong with Amuro —

“Get a room.” It’s hard to read Ortega’s tone, and Amuro blinks owlishly at him, brought back from his runaway train of thought.

“Do _you_ want some grapes?” Char asks, perfectly calm, blissfully unaware of Amuro’s concern.

“Don’t listen to him,” Amuro says. He can just be normal and make fun of Char, which is, after all, one of Ortega’s pastimes. “He’s a menace; it’s a trap.”

“You’re both menaces,” Ortega points out, which is fair enough. “I’ll just eat later -“

“No, no, we were about to go,” Char says, landing on the wall and grabbing Amuro, who goes along with it just because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself any further in front of Ortega. 

“I fucking swear,” Ortega says, finally sounding amused.

“Sorry!” Amuro calls over his shoulder as he and Char head down the hall, leaving the poor cafeteria behind. “Ah, I forgot to clean up my tray -“

“It’s fine, he can just deal with it,” Char says, grinning over at him as Amuro falls into step beside him. “That’s what he gets for having bad timing.”

“You’re awful."

“Come on,” Char says, turning quickly; he hits a door panel and backs into a room. Amuro only belatedly realizes they’ve reached his own quarters. “That normal suit has to be uncomfortable by now.”

“A bit,” Amuro agrees. The door closes behind them, and they’re standing very close together in the small, quiet room. Char edges in that little bit closer, his hand resting lightly at Amuro’s collar. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s asking permission, and Amuro inclines his head just the slightest bit.

“Then let me help you with that.” Char grins, then; Amuro is once again reminded of a predator - a shark, a hawk, something like that; he doesn’t know enough about animals to really solidify the metaphor but the feeling is there. He feels caught, but not in a bad way; he licks his lips and tilts his head down slightly, chin hitting the padding on the neck of his normal suit, watching as Char slides a finger in the collar and pulls down the zippers. The action is startlingly efficient. Amuro half-expected Char to draw the process out needlessly, or tease him, but no - he gets it unzipped and then helps Amuro pull his gloves off, too. Like it’s perfectly normal for him to be helping Amuro undress like this, as if he’s done it a dozen times already.

Amuro braces one arm against his desk as Char tugs his boots off; they’re a little tricky, compared to the gloves, but they’re off too, all too soon, and Char’s got this awful, self-satisfied little smirk as he moves to peel Amuro out of the unzipped suit. Just for that stupid expression on his face, Amuro’s tempted to shove him away, but he bites his lip and lets Char do it because it’s not like Char is wrong to be pleased with himself.

“You have a lot of experience getting people out of normal suits, huh?” Amuro asks, bemused, as he tugs his arm out of one sleeve and then the other, Char helping out by holding the sleeves in place. No one’s helped him undress since he was a child; it’s sort of bizarre, in this new context. His heart rate’s up, and from a corner, Haro chirps out an update on his vitals and declares him healthy and energetic, and Amuro flushes but Char seems to be completely ignoring the little robot.

For a moment, Char looks puzzled, then he laughs. “It’s not like that, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a safety thing.”

“A _safety_ thing?” Amuro yanks at Char’s jacket, and thankfully Char goes along with it. Getting him out of his clothes is a lot easier than getting Amuro out of the normal suit.

“This is really what you’re asking me about right now?” Char asks, resting his hands on Amuro’s hips, rubbing one calloused thumb against the skin right above the hem of Amuro’s boxers. The gentle pressure of his touch is like a kinder sort of gravity holding them together. “We had test pilots on the Gundam project fall unconscious sometimes. It’s been an issue when I was working on the Zaku project, too. Sometimes you need to get someone out of a suit because they can’t do it themselves.”

“Oh,” Amuro says, feeling very, very stupid all of a sudden. The thing is this: he’s spent a lot of time thinking about Char - beating him up, kissing him, fighting him, having sex with him - but he has somehow never quite processed the idea that the latter was a genuine possibility, and right now it seems like it is, and maybe - maybe he just needs to focus, actually. If he really wanted to, he could talk himself out of this, or come up with an excuse to leave, or even just - least believably, because he wouldn’t mean it even though Char would accept it - say _no, not right now_ , and that would be fine.

But Char’s right there, and Amuro’s right here, and Char laughs when Amuro leans in to kiss him and tries to steal his stupid sunglasses in the process, batting Amuro’s hand away, and Amuro laughs too because he should be fucking tired of that by now but it almost feels like a running joke, at this point, that Char refuses to stop wearing those stupid things.

He tangles his hands in Char’s hair, instead, which is very soft, and stops thinking so much. It’s okay, maybe, to just let Char take care of him.

-

“Lalah, I need your wisdom.”

“Is that so? Then get out of here,” Lalah says, waving a hand toward the door. “Go back.”

“No.” Char flounces down across her bed, nudging her tablet out of the way so he can rest his head in her lap. After a moment, he reconsiders, and lifts his head just enough to take off his sunglasses comfortably before setting them adrift and lying down again.

“Do you want my wisdom or do you want to sulk? I’m not your mom either way, Char,” Lalah says, though she does pat him on the head, which is nice of her.

Char closes his eyes. “I just thought he’d finally understand me, that’s all.”

“You …” Lalah takes a moment to absorb this information, then sighs deeply. “Really?”

“He had a moment with _Artesia_ ,” Char says, fully aware that he’s whining. This is the least dignified he’s ever been, possibly in his entire life. There’s no one else - not his father, not his actual mother if she were still alive, not Artesia, certainly not Amuro - he’d let see him making this much of an idiot of himself. Even so, he winces at the sound of his own voice. 

“Mhm.” Lalah nods, trying to look serious for a moment, then starts giggling at him.

“Lalah!”

“Yes, Captain?” She strokes his hair, and he turns, lying on his side and staring at the wall as she does, his cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her nightgown. When he’s quiet long enough, she says, “You know that being a Newtype doesn’t mean you don’t have to try, right?”

“So I _am_ a -“

“Char.”

“Fine, you won’t tell me,” Char says. “I understand.”

He can feel Lalah shaking as she tries, nobly, to stifle a laugh. At least someone’s amused. “There aren’t rules or anything. Just try the old fashioned way, and maybe things will work out.”

“I just don’t understand why he can have a whole conversation with my sister, but I -“

Lalah sighs again, exasperated. “You thought touching his dick would give him a perfect understanding of your mindset?”

Char is quiet for a moment. “It sounds stupid when you say it that way. That’s not what I mean.”

“It’s exactly what you meant.”

“It is _not_.” Char pauses, turning his head and narrowing his eyes up at her.

She brushes his bangs off his forehead, then taps him on the nose. “Char. Captain. Get out of here. I’m not going to listen to you crying about how Amuro didn’t instantly read your mind the second you got him naked.”

“Crying,” Char repeats, indignant. “Since when do you disrespect me so much, Lalah?”

“Since right now,” she says, very fond. “I love you, but you’re awful.”

“Amuro thinks I could be a good person,” Char tells her, feeling very stubborn.

“Good for him!” Lalah laughs, delighted. “I do too, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t absurd. Listen. Alright. Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“You keep wanting him to understand you,” Lalah says, slowly, a little more thoughtfully, now. “But the thing is - what are you actually offering?”

Again, Char is quiet.

“You _say_ that’s what you want, but you don’t … no, it’s not that you don’t trust him, it’s that you don’t trust yourself. You won’t actually let him see anything at all. How’s he supposed to break through that all on his own?”

She starts stroking his hair again, and Char sighs. “I …”

“Yes, you. I know who I’m talking to, thank you,” Lalah says. “Do you want someone who understands you, or do you want a weapon?”

“Both?”

“Hm,” Lalah says, and then wiggles a little bit and kicks Char once she’s freed herself from under him. It’s gentle, but it doesn’t take much in zero gravity to push someone away. His face looks so forlorn that she can’t help but start laughing at him again. “Go, go, get out. Don’t make him wake up without you there. You’re so mean.”

“You kicked me, and I’m the mean one.”

“Yes!”

-

Getting clearance to dock at Side 5 takes a lot of fast talking from Hamon. It’s still, apparently, a better bet than Side 3 - why, Amuro isn’t sure - but it seems like the situation in the Earthsphere’s continued to deteriorate while they were biding their time on Earth and getting chased down by that Federation vessel.

When they do dock, the first thing they get is a warning from the stationmaster about which parts of the colony to avoid because of ongoing disputes between the colonists and the security forces.

(“But they’re colonists too, if they live here,” Amuro says; no one even dignifies that with a response, and he winces, because he deserved that one.) 

They get a car from the dock to the governor’s mansion, taking a few detours and with a lengthy delay at a roadblock. It’s only Char, Amuro and Ramba who go - Hamon has other business to attend to, and Amuro doesn’t think to ask what the others are going to do until it feels awkward to ask so belatedly. At the mansion, they get welcomed in and are led to a little sitting room off the entry hall. A butler turns on the TV then leaves them alone after offering to get them water; Ramba shrugs the offer off before Amuro’s even decided if he wants a drink.

"So why am I here, exactly?" Amuro asks, belatedly, finally frustrated enough with not knowing that he has to say something.

"Moral support," Char says, dryly, then grins. "No, no, that's not it. It was you or Lalah. I needed a pilot, that's all."

"Me or Lalah, huh." Amuro pauses, brow furrowing. "What about Ortega? Or Gaia? They've both been pilots way longer than I have."

"Don't worry about it," Char says, then looks up, as the door to the sitting room opens again. He stands, patting Amuro on the shoulder, then folds his hands behind his back, his posture impeccable. In this moment he looks like someone else entirely; far less casual, and somehow, despite his polite smile, far more dangerous.

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello please feel free to come shout about robots and war trauma with me on twitter @aflightybroad


End file.
